


And His Brother Morphine

by mycroftholmesbrolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Squabbling, Emotional Hurt, Flashbacks, Gen, London, Mental Breakdown, Mycroft-centric, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sleep Deprivation, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:19:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9556913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftholmesbrolly/pseuds/mycroftholmesbrolly
Summary: The clocks begin to tick and time is not on his side.





	1. Business as usual

_Well then he’s very limited. You were always the grown up. Well then he’s very limited. You were always the grown up. Well then he’s-_ Mycroft awoke with a start. He took a moment to steady his breathing and to calm the pounding in his chest. The duvet was damp with sweat, his room dark, and the house thankfully silent. The events from the previous fortnight still clung to his subconscious. The nightmares seemed to be ever changing at first, sometimes they played exactly as the events occurred, sometimes things were altered, deranged, and blurred in an incomprehensible fashion. Eventually they settled on something more...sinister after the meeting with his parents.

 He and Sherlock had agreed that it was no longer possible to shield Eurus’ continued existence from their parents. They agreed that they should hear the truth directly from Mycroft himself, and that Sherlock should be present in the event that their parents decided to stop listening after the truth of Mycroft’s involvement in the deception was revealed. They needed to know everything, why Eurus murdered the Trevor boy, why the falsification of the events of the second fire, and what Eurus had become since. The meeting went as well as could be expected, except Mycroft didn’t expect mummy’s words to cut as deeply as they did. Yes he knew mummy and daddy would be hurt, angry, and disappointed in his actions. Mycroft just didn’t expect to be _looked_ at the way he was, like _he_ wasn’t her child too.

Sherlock likes to joke that he has a list, and that Mycroft has a file, for all the things mummy has to answer for. He’s half right. Sherlock has a list but, Mycroft doesn’t have a file, he doesn’t even have a word. How can he expect mummy to answer for things when he has brought so much shame and misery to the family? Unable to voice a logical argument about Eurus’ behaviour, unable to solve the eerie tune and save poor Victor, not seeing the fire coming, not helping Sherlock find a better outlet for his grief than his reinvention of “Redbeard”. All of these things were just the beginning, yes he was still a child but he was “remarkable” after all. These facts together meant his nightmare, though terrifying, was most likely everything he deserved.

A buzzing from his nightstand pulled Mycroft from his thoughts. He reached for the blasted thing and silenced the alarm. Mycroft had a meeting with the ambassador from France at 0700 and he had exactly two hours to prepare a way to subtly but firmly squash the ambassadors more fascist views on how the relationship between Britain and France should be. Usually this meeting wouldn’t exactly be under Mycroft’s direct influence but as half the world had decided to go openly insane within the last year it meant he had to put in more damage control time. With one last long sigh Mycroft flung the duvet from himself and got out of bed. Though it was winter and only five in the morning there was a distinct lightening of the sky visible through Mycroft’s curtains. Snow then, strange for so late in January but, with the previous year’s lack of it, not unexpected with the shift in climate. Mycroft headed to his en suite and partook in a longer and hotter shower than he would normally allow himself. _Maybe the burning heat could clear the feelings of inadequacy from his pores._ By 5:30 Mycroft was clean, dried, and dressed in an immaculate three piece suit.

The extended shower allowed for Mycroft to formulate the correct argument needed against the French ambassador and to sort out the rest of the day’s schedule. Leaving his house Mycroft engages the new security unit and locks up. Hopefully the new unit, code, and deadbolt will delay any future...games conducted by his brother. Walking to the end of the drive Mycroft is met by his car and driver. Mycroft opens the door and slides into the back. Once inside he instructs his drivers to take him to the Diogenes. With the day’s proceedings sorted Mycroft had time to sit and think. This would have previously been a small reprieve from work but now, thanks to Eurus’ games, only allowed time for Mycroft to focus on his nightmare. Is it really still considered a nightmare if it has begun to creep into one’s waking thoughts as well as one’s dreamscape?

_“Tick Tock! Tickets please!” The smiling and crazed visage of James Moriarty appears on the damnable screen again. Whirring alarms and flashing red lights reverberate around and encase the room. Mycroft is advocating for Dr. Watson’s death._

_“Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with...and we can get to work.” Mycroft is putting as much heat and loathing as he can into his words. Sherlock must shoot him, losing another best friend would destroy him._

_“We can get to work,” asked Sherlock incredulously, “You haven’t worked a day in your life!”_

_“What on Earth are you talking about Sherlock” Mycroft inquired angrily._

_Good, it’s working Sherlock is becoming incensed, John means too much to him. If Mycroft can continue to keep Sherlock’s emotions ramped up he won’t have to think, he won’t have to choose, and he hopefully will be able to let go of the guilt of killing his own brother._

_“A kiss ass paper pushing position in the mundane government isn’t work, Mycroft” sneered Sherlock._

_Mycroft knows Sherlock is reacting just as he wants him to, emotional not logical. However, Sherlock’s words still hurt. Sherlock can’t mean them, he looks up to Mycroft, despite their differences, even Mrs. Hudson thinks so. Something isn’t right, somet-_

A car horn pulls Mycroft from the nightmare, interrupted once more. Perhaps the nightmare isn’t in his waking thoughts perhaps he simply dozed for the duration of the car ride. He hadn’t been receiving his optimal three hours of sleep in the last several weeks, perhaps his damnable aging transport has taken too much of a toll. There’s nothing he can do about the march of time, and plenty of things he has to cover with the French ambassador. Mycroft arrives at the Diogenes within a few minutes and heads straight for his office. Mycroft only has a short time until the meeting and he needs to do his morning checks before heading to Whitehall. Mycroft had only just powered up his laptop when he heard Anthea outside his door.

“Mr. Holmes will be leaving shortly for a meeting, you can’t go in there.”

“Well if he’s leaving there’s no better time to make a social call” came Sherlock’s smug voice.

When would baby brother learn that he’s not always readily available and that some people have actual jobs? What Sherlock could want so soon after the Eurus fiasco and the subsequent authorised visits imposed by their parents is beyond him.

“Hey bro” came Sherlock’s mocking salutation as he burst in, “I thought you were leaving.”

So it’s to be a demand of some sort, possibly an annoying favour, joy.

“I don’t have time for this Sherlock, I have documents to sign, dossiers to approve, and I _am_ leaving” was Mycroft’s annoyed reply.

“Well unfortunately our parents have been bugging _me_ about when they can see sister dearest.”

“Sherlock _our_ parents chose _you_ to lead this escapade in interacting with Eurus. _I_ told them that it was pointless, that she won’t communicate, and that she’s beyond our view.” Mycroft was tired, he didn’t have the energy for this.

“Yes and then _you_ allowed _me_ bi-weekly visits to play with her. _You_ gave _me_ the clearance and the go ahead. This is your project too” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“With the new security measures in place at Sherrinford I would need permission from one other committee member. Meaning I need a valid reason other than mummy and daddy dearest ne-“

“Oh don’t become a paper _pushing position in the government isn’t work Mycroft!_ MYCROFT!” Mycroft was pulled from his lapse in reality to Sherlock shouting at him.

“Were you even listening to me” Sherlock inquired angrily.

“No I was going about today’s schedule. I am very busy Sherlock and last fortnight’s escapades cost me a great deal of time and influence. I cannot simply grant our parents clearance without cause” bit back Mycroft.

“If you had paid attention you would know I offered a plan! If I can get Eurus to duet with me consistently for the next three weeks I need you to update whomever you must and get clearance for a visit by mummy and daddy” seethed Sherlock.

Mycroft was tired, he had a whole day’s work ahead of him, he wanted to argue and say that that wasn’t a plan that was a favour. Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed.

“If you can get her to duet with you, consistently and for the majority of each of your little visits, I will arrange for our parents to accompany you.”

“Excellent, because I already told them they could visit in three weeks, ta” shouted Sherlock as he ran out the door.

“Sherlock you can’t just-” Mycroft stopped midsentence and held his face in his hands “-oh forget it.”

_Tick Tock!_ Came Moriarty’s voice. Mycroft jerked up in alarm. _It can’t be, no screens or speakers to project from, it’s nothing._ Mycroft wasn’t tired, he was exhausted and it was getting to him. Mycroft sighed, closed his laptop and left for his meeting. He would have to call his parents and properly explain the deal later.

After his successful meeting with the ambassador, Mycroft decided to stop by Lady Smallwood’s office and pitch the deal of his parents’ visitation. Alicia Smallwood was in her office as indicated by the thick black fleece cape hung on the rack outside of her door. Outside to ensure that hers is the last removed, it’s not right for the boss to leave before their inferiors, at least for her terms of morality. The cape could simply indicate that she were simply in the building and not in the office however, the vapours of her perfume mixed with a vanilla bean low fat latte, said otherwise.

“Good morning Bethany, is Lady Smallwood available” Mycroft asked the receptionist.

“Lady Smallwood is out of the office” said Bethany while looking Mycroft directly in the eye.

Mycroft wouldn’t be slighted so easily. Raising his voice enough for Alicia to hear him through the door Mycroft verbalised his deductions. This wasn’t his normal method, he didn’t show off like his brother, but Mycroft still had a very long day ahead of him. As predicted Lady Smallwood opened her door to address his deductions.

“Bethany would you move my three o’clock up a half hour, the meeting with the American diplomat won’t take as long as an hour” Lady Smallwood asked her receptionist without even acknowledging Mycroft.

“Lady Smallwood I require an audience with you” stated Mycroft.

Lady Smallwood simply stared at him as if he hadn’t even spoken, like he wasn’t even standing there. _Well then he’s very limited._ Mycroft ignored the voice as best he could.

“And I’ll be needing another latte” was all Lady Smallwood would say.

She shut her office door with a snap. _So this was about drinks_. Well Mycroft could play her game, if that’s what it took. Mycroft bid Bethany a good morning and left to return to his Diogenes offices. Mycroft had a two hour block reserved for paperwork at 1530, if Lady Smallwood could afford to move her meeting she can afford to cancel it for...drinks.

When Mycroft’s office clock showed a quarter ‘til three, he dialled Alicia Smallwood’s personal mobile. It rang twice before she answered.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes” came Alicia’s smug voice.

Mycroft held in a sigh and reminded himself why he was doing this.

“My sincerest apologies for not having phoned earlier, but given the,” Mycroft paused for emphasis, “circumstances, I’m sure you can understand my delay.”

“Yes of course Mr. Holmes, sorting out your sister’s mess must have been extremely taxing on you.”

Lady Smallwood was being very clear, Mycroft wasn’t going to be able to pull off a quick tryst and wash his hands of it. Mycroft was going to have to actually _go_ for drinks, he’ll have Anthea arrange it for this evening.

“Very, and I do so appreciate your patience. I was hoping you would join me this evening for our drinks, say 7” asked Mycroft.

“Only this evening Mr. Holmes,” Lady Smallwood inquired laughingly, “and on such short notice?”

Mycroft tried his hardest to give no indication of his exasperation. Twice, she wants to....TWICE. Wasn’t the human libido meant to decrease with age? Was Lady Smallwood deprived of sexual advancements during her marriage? Mycroft had never attempted to deduce such a detail from her, they had known each other for a very long time, and she had earned a modicum of his respect in that time. Mycroft had no choice, this was the easiest method of obtaining support, and there were worse deals.

“Again, my apologies. I also seem to have left my lunch quite late. Would you be willing to join me for a small affair...of tea and sandwiches in my office at say...half past?”

Mycroft waited through the silence, he could practically hear Lady Smallwood’s gears turning at his proposal but, is it a decent enough one, or his he making a fool of himself? _Tick tick tick tick._ Mycroft had to fight from gasping at the noise. _He’s simply exhausted, he merely needs to strike this deal and then he can take a half day tomorrow._

“I seem to have a free block then,” Alicia piqued, “and I am ravenous...I’ll see you then, Mycroft.”

She hung up and Mycroft allowed himself to slump in his chair. He liked Alicia Smallwood, he truly did, but he simply did not have the energy for her specific needs at the moment. He had work to do, family to appease, a prison to monitor, and now he had to appease a colleague with sexual favours because of his damnable little brother...AGAIN! Mycroft sat up straight and allowed himself one last deep breath to pull himself together before buzzing Anthea.

“Anthea please schedule a reservation for two at venue number 12 for tonight at 7.”

“Yes sir, will that be all” came Anthea’s voice through the intercom.

“I will be having a late lunch with Lady Smallwood at half past three, have tea and assorted sandwiches ready, and then you are dismissed for the evening” Mycroft ordered.

“Yes sir.”

Mycroft busied himself with the things that needed his approval, signature, and just other general tasks that had to be seen to before Lady Smallwood’s arrival. Ten minutes before the scheduled meeting Anthea wheeled in the tea cart and left shortly thereafter. Mycroft hoped he could meet Lady Smallwood’s...terms...for this meeting. This day has taken an unexpected toll, he may not be getting his usual three hours of sleep a night but, he thought he was getting at least half of what he needed. He shouldn’t be this exhausted, was it simply his transport wearing thin as he progressed through middle age? Isn’t it a bit early for that. _Tick Tock._

“ENOUGH” Mycroft shouted as he threw the fountain pen he had been writing with across the room.

Rather than striking his closed office door as it should have, Lady Smallwood chose that exact moment to enter his domain without knocking. This faux pas resulted in her being struck in the nose with the sharp tip of the pen. A small slash of blood began to appear as Lady Smallwood reached for the injury.

“I rather thought I had been _invited_ ” snipped Lady Smallwood as she held the wound to stem the flow.

“Alicia I am terribly sorry. I hadn’t realised you were entering when I threw the pen. Here” said Mycroft as he stood and guided her to a chair.

Mycroft walked back around his desk to retrieve the small first aid box from one of its drawers. He removed an alcohol swab and a small clear sticking plaster.

“If I may, Alicia” asked Mycroft as he held up the items.

Lady Smallwood raised an eyebrow haughtily but removed her hand and allowed Mycroft to see to the injury. Mycroft worked quickly but gently as he dabbed the swab on the cut and thoroughly cleaned it. He then quickly applied the sticking plaster and sat back on the edge of the desk to survey his handiwork. Lady Smallwood gazed up at him with an offended look set upon her face. Mycroft reached out and cupped her cheek, running his thumb soothingly up and down.

“I do so hope that in my exasperation I haven’t ruined our...tea” said Mycroft softly.

Lady Smallwood’s face softened and she leaned into his touch for just a moment. She took a deep breath, straightened up, and removed Mycroft’s hand from her person.

“These past few weeks have taken a larger toll on you than I had thought” observed Lady Smallwood.

“I realise my emotional display is a bit out of character but-” Mycroft began.

“Are you referring to the cut on my nose or the fact that you reached out to soothe me when you haven’t called once since I offered to change this arrangement from business to something more” inquired Lady Smallwood.

Mycroft, still sitting on the edge of the desk, leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest trying to shield himself from Lady Smallwood’s piercing gaze. He closed his eyes, sighed, and tilted his head towards the ceiling.

“Both I suppose, to be frank Alicia, certain social aspects of society have never appealed to me.”

“Oh” questioned Lady Smallwood.

“Though there have been aspects that will occasionally draw my attention,” Mycroft paused and unfolded himself to look Lady Smallwood in the eyes, “I loathe the time spent mingling when it means nothing in the end.”

Lady Smallwood frowned, and stared at Mycroft for a moment. She blinked, then looked at the untouched tea cart, pondering. The cart was filled with lovely sandwiches, cucumber, egg and cress, smoked salmon, and the tea smelled of oolong and gun smoke giving the room a faint heady scent. Pity. Lady Smallwood turned and faced Mycroft once more, giving him a steely look.

“Do you value me Mycroft? My support, my encouragement, my friendship, and my political responses even when they clash with your own” Lady Smallwood forcefully inquired.

“Yes of course Alicia, I-” Mycroft began.

“Then let me actually be frank Mycroft, and not this ‘riddle me this’ frank you seem so fond of” Lady Smallwood gave a slow sneering smirk.

Mycroft held her gaze but mentally prepared himself for a terrible tongue lashing and quite possibly the end of Lady Smallwood’s support.

“If you have no desire to court me in any fashion...then this will remain a business relationship” she smiled like the cat who had caught the canary.

Mycroft was floored, he had not expected this result. He must be even more exhausted than he thought.

“Alicia, I greatly-“

“Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes” she insisted.

“Lady Smallwood,” he conceded, “I greatly appreciate you understanding my position on this, may I offer you something” Mycroft asked as he gestured to the cart.

“No Mr. Holmes, this is a business meeting and there won’t be time for refreshments.”

Lady Smallwood stood and stepped into Mycroft’s personal space. She laid her hand upon his cheek and mimicked his earlier motions.

“We have a lot to...discuss, as even though our dinner arrangements tonight will remain,” she paused, “we won’t be partaking in dessert afterwards.”

“I _am_ on a diet” proclaimed Mycroft as he stood and pulled her forwards so as there was barely a hair’s breadth between them.

“Then let us get to business Mr. Holmes.”


	2. Stop Playing With Your Food

It was raining now, a downpour not usually seen this time of year. The sky outside the car window seemed to be an endless sea of inky black, the buildings formed a blur of muted browns, greys, and reds, studded with the jewels formed by their lighted windows. Smoking pub patrons huddled in masses refusing to leave the shelter of their combined umbrellas. Restaurants overcrowded with customers not willing to brave the sudden deluge of water. Most other establishments empty but for the employees standing in wait at the registers or performing their duties in the hopes of an early close, if only by a few minutes. The streets flowed like fierce rivers, the many drains barely keeping the water at a driveable level. Every time the car drove through a particularly deep patch, a wall of opaque black water leaped up to soak the pavement and any already unfortunate passerby.

Mycroft sat with his head on the glass panel, eyes closed, and breathing slowly. He was not asleep, though he wishes he were. No, Mycroft was running the tail end of his day over and over in his mind. His...business meeting with Lady Smallwood had been taxing on his already exhausted body. Though he had at least managed to meet her desires, and they did eventually get to the sandwiches. The tea however, had gone cold and was undrinkable, which was fine by them. She left after two cucumber sandwiches and he a smoked salmon. A staffer came to retrieve the cart shortly after Lady Smallwood’s departure, and Mycroft was able to order a cup of builder’s tea. The food and warm drink only made his exhaustion worse, he began to suffer micro-sleeps, momentarily losing his vision. They made the paperwork he had nearly impossible to finish, barely powering through to finish by 5:00. He still had forms and email to peruse but nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow afternoon.

Mycroft left his office and headed straight for home to change into a fresh suit, after all it wouldn’t do to appear at a dinner date in his work attire. It would have been especially rude considering his partner for the evening had already interacted with him that day. No, Mycroft had worked hard for his aura of poise and respect, unlike his sometimes hooligan of a brother, he wouldn’t jeopardise it now.

Mycroft was lucky not to suffer any further nightmare fragments after his meeting with Lady Smallwood, neither was he plagued with them on the car ride home. Perhaps the fragments weren’t solely linked to his exhaustion, he had after all skipped breakfast. _The most important meal of the day, according to his mother and science._ Once through his front door, and his security back in place, Mycroft climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He passed the family portraits along the way, all cleaned of the fake blood and holes patched. As he passed the portrait of Alan O’Mullen he thought he saw it seep blood once more. His heart leapt into his throat and he quickly glanced back to find the portrait perfectly normal. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, evening both his breathing and his heart rate. Once calm Mycroft studied the portrait, particularly the nose. _It’s ghastly unfair that he should have been the only child to inherit the O’Mullen nose. Mummy would tell him to be proud he had received the nose of Irish kings._ Mycroft couldn’t think of his nose as kingly then, not as the overweight unsociable child he had been. Even now it occasionally haunted him, a bit more than figuratively at the moment, but he had overcome it for the most part.

Continuing on to his rooms Mycroft opened the door to reveal a spacious room with not only an en suite but a separate and large walk-in wardrobe. He hadn’t properly appreciated the room this morning, the hour too early and having been covered in sweat, needing to wash. His housekeeper Mrs. George had been in to change the bed linens and to freshen his towels. The California King was wide and tall, and perhaps the most comfortable bed he had ever owned. The duvet cover was a deep navy blue, folded back to reveal pristine white sheets adorned with matching soft pillows. Most people would assume that Mycroft’s belongings would all be up tight and stiff but, no Mycroft enjoyed the softer things for comfort.

Mycroft crossed the room to his wardrobe where he stripped to his pants. Rather than immediately changing into a fresh suit he instead opted to exit the wardrobe, go to the bathroom, and run a warm flannel over his skin. The day’s worries wiped away Mycroft decided to allow himself a fifteen minutes eye rest, it was only 6:15, he lived close to the venue, and upon her insistence he agreed to meet Lady Smallwood there rather than picking her up. He may not be able to sleep but studies showed even laying in the dark with one’s eyes closed refreshed the brain’s processing centres. His mind was blissfully silent, or as silent as someone with his mental prowess could be. He was fine, totally and completely fine. Until the clock. He could hear the grandfather clock down the hall. Tick tock tick tock. It sounded nothing like James Moriarty, but it grated on his nerves just the same. It did not appear that he would be getting rest in any form before dinner.

Mycroft sighed and got out of bed. He might as well get dressed and head to the venue, it would be an insult to Lady Smallwood if he arrived after her, and she was a very punctual woman. Mycroft once more entered his wardrobe. Scanning his suits he chose the navy blue with pinstripes, and chose the burgundy red tie and matching pocket square from their rack and drawers. Dressed appropriately and hair tamed of any fly away, Mycroft summoned his driver.

He arrived at the Dorchester at 6:45, which should allow him plenty of time before Lady Smallwood was due to arrive. Entering the establishment, Mycroft was greeted by the maıtre d’.

“Monsieur Holmes welcome and right this way” greeted the man.

Normally Mycroft would have been lead to the Salon Privé dining room, and on one occasion he booked the Table Lumière for a very important business dinner requiring a bit of pizzazz. This time however, Mycroft wanted Alicia to know, after their lunch meeting, that he valued her and still respected her. He didn’t want to seem flirty, or a show off, or worse yet ashamed and secretive. The Privé would have told her that their dinner was a clandestine business meeting, and that they should be separate from society and speak only in hushed close whispers. The Lumière would suggest that Mycroft had second thoughts about their relationship, that it was more than professional or friendship. A room which is often depicted as the picturesque milieu of a romantic dinner.  No, Mycroft wanted to treat her to an expensive dinner in the open, as colleagues and as friends. This meant that the Salon Park Lane, the main dining room, was the perfect setting. But, just because Mycroft didn’t want to be a show off didn’t mean he couldn’t book the best seat in the room.

Mycroft was lead to the table next to the centre window, which offered a gorgeous view of Hyde Park. It may have been winter, but the park still had plenty to offer. The moon illuminated the bare branches, each curving and bending as if the breezes during their growing period were a symphony only they could hear and dance to. The streets below still bustled with life, the gentle hum of it barely heard through the window. It was a humbling view compared to its seasonal siblings but still gorgeous. It was perhaps the onyx of the sky at such an early hour that gave the park such a mysterious and calming essence, yes that was it. Winter may not be pretty but it was certainly mysterious.

Taking his seat, Mycroft ordered a bottle of white wine for the table knowing it would suit Alicia’s taste as they perused the menu and wouldn’t over power their pallets so their food and drink pairings wouldn’t be disrupted. He wondered if he should order his usual meal for this venue or if he should allow his choice to complement hers. This venue was usually a place for business, flashy and soothing all at once, but it was also simply nice. The food was superb, the lighting gentle, and the overall atmosphere made conversation easy, even the lulls were comfortable and sagacious. It could be a nice place for old friends to mingle and enjoy a delicious meal, couldn’t it? Friends went out on, well not dates, but...is there a word for friendship dates? He did not believe so. Perhaps he was setting himself up for a catastrophe. Lady Smallwood could read more into this than he intended, she could expect something he wasn’t offering. Maybe he’s just being an- _idiot boy._

Mycroft paused a moment, eyes going wide as he once more heard mummy’s ire. He shook his head to clear it. _No, no it’s not nearly that bad. He must really try to sleep after dinner, he’ll take the morning off to ensure a full night’s rest. Three hours won’t do, he clearly had hours to make up, a full eight should do it._ Mycroft talked himself down and relaxed his muscles food and rest were all he needed, truly. As he was finally settled again he noticed Lady Smallwood being led by the maıtre d’ to the table. He stood and smiled, acknowledging their approach.

“Alicia, thank you for joining me this evening.” He began as he circled to her seat, standing behind it so that he may pull it out for her. Lady Smallwood arrived at the table, and offered only a smile and a nod in acknowledgement of Mycroft’s greeting. Not the dry and flat mannerisms he received this morning, but genuine affection and an ease of interaction. She sat, and Mycroft placed her chair close to the table like the proper gentleman he was raised to be. He returned back to his seat and motioned for a waiter to poor their wine.

“This is a lovely place Mycroft, and the view is superb” greeted Lady Smallwood as she took a sip of the wine. “Excellent choice of a pre-meal drink as well.” She sat her wine glass back on the table and placed her folded hands beneath her chin, resting there to look across at Mycroft.

Lady Smallwood was dressed in a simple black off the shoulder mid-length sheath dress, with the hem of the neckline crossed in a thick fold. She accented the dress with a sapphire and diamond ballet necklace. The first ring of the necklace alternated the gems, then the second row allowed for dangly bits to branch from the first. The branches that started with diamonds were shorter and were composed of two smaller diamonds set at opposing angles to form a small leaf, followed by a small sapphire. The sapphire branches were longer and started with a small round diamond, then the leaf diamonds, and finally a second larger sapphire. The necklace drew one’s eyes to her throat, making it look elongated and thinner.  She paired the necklace with pear cut diamond stud earrings and a sapphire ring of the same cut. Her hair had been curled and pulled into a simple half updo, twisted and held in place by a sapphire and diamond pin. Her makeup was the same style as always, only changing the shade of her lipstick to a richer red. She looked exquisite and pleased to be in Mycroft’s company.

“You look lovely Alicia, thank you for joining me tonight,” Mycroft said, once more thanking her. “I’m glad you approved of the wine, I haven’t had the pleasure of your company here before and thought it the best choice without knowing your order.” Though he could have deduced her most likely choice earlier in the day he was incredibly tired, and that would have been offensive to an old friend. _Though Alicia did tend to have certain favourites for particular cuisines and he could have claimed a lucky guess._ But no, Mycroft was a gentleman and was making amends, a deduction used to simply show off was not appropriate at the moment.

“Thank you Mycroft. Despite how this was arranged I _am_ glad to be here. It’s nice to share a fine meal with an intelligent man every once in a while.” She smiled and took another drink. Placing her glass back down, she frowned and looked him in the eye. “Though I must say you have been looking tired as of late, is anything wrong?”

_Well then he’s very limited._ Mycroft winced at both the intrusive echo of his mother’s voice and at the question. It was a good thing he had already decided to take the next morning off, or else he might have felt insulted and vulnerable in equal measures.

“Simply restless as of late, and not nearly as relaxed as I could be, what with reorganising Sherrinford.” He smiled and took a sip from his own glass of wine. “I will be taking the morning off to rest and relax as most of my familial issues with Sherrinford have now been sorted.”

“I assume your use of the word ‘most’ is why you wished to speak with me this morning?”

“Yes, brother dearest has made a promise to my parents that he cannot fulfil. Nor can I without your support and I hoped that I still had it. However, given my lack of a proper response to your-”

Lady Smallwood laughed, cutting off Mycroft’s carefully placed words. “Mycroft my dear we already had this conversation. You still have my support and I am no longer cross about your previous misdeed. Now, what specifically do you need?”

“My parents expect to be able to visit Eurus with Sherlock three weeks from today. He brokered a favour, described as a deal, to me this morning.” Mycroft paused, rubbing a hand over his tired face, taking a breath he continued. “If my brother can have successful duets with Eurus at every visit for 3 weeks then our parents will be allowed a visit to see and hear one of their little...concerts.”

Lady Smallwood sat straight in her chair, her complexion taking on a serious and thoughtful setting. She turned and looked out the window, being sure not to look at Mycroft when she spoke. “His next arranged meeting is tomorrow, is it not?”

“Yes, in the afternoon. I’ll be back in time to monitor the situation from my office.” Lady Smallwood would still not look at him. _She’s assessing the situation as a colleague, not a friend. It is still too early to expect whimsical approval, especially not when Eurus is concerned._

“I’ll put through a cautionary visitation approval for your parents. However, it will be revoked if the terms of your...deal, are not met.”

Mycroft released a breath he had not realised he was holding. “I accept, and thank you for seriously considering this.”

Lady Smallwood finally turned back to him and smirked. “Now that this unpleasant business has been covered, how about we finally order, yes?” she said while picking up their menus.

After a few minutes of perusal, Mycroft had decided on the crab for an appetiser, the venison for his main, and a delicious sounding baked apple ice cream. Lady Smallwood opted for the mushroom appetiser, the scallop main, and the chocolate and coffee for dessert. He summoned a waiter and they both accepted their suggested wines for their mains, a Mourvedre and a Rosé respectively. Their appetisers arrived quickly and were immediately dug into. The crab was delicious, served with a pureed celeriac that was seasoned with garlic and melted butter, and a side of caviar to boot. The flavours of all three were well crafted and paired beautifully. Lady Smallwood seemed equally pleased with her sautéed mushrooms and herb pesto.

“Would you like to try one?” Lady Smallwood inquired, pushing a mushroom to the edge of her plate for Mycroft to grab with his own fork.

Mycroft smiled and nodded, bringing his fork to the offered bite, hovering his fork before he could pierce the morsel. He teasingly smirked and gave a knowing but inquisitive look.

“You simply want the last of my caviar don’t you?”

Lady Smallwood gave her best impression of a wide eyed small child. “Moi? No perhaps I would like the celeriac, it looks divine.” She said as she attempted to sneak her fork towards his plate. Mycroft was too quick for her and blocked her fork with his own.

“You _hate_ turnips, you nearly gagged when you discovered shredded bits in your salad at the last state dinner,” he taunted.

“Well, perhaps I do want the caviar then, you’re not going to _pushing posi-”_

Mycroft blinked and slowly shook his head to bring himself back to the current setting and away from the pull of his nightmare. Lady Smallwood not recognising his distress and bewilderment, took his head shake as an acquiescence and swiped the last of his caviar. Not wanting to draw any attention to his slip, he simply speared the offered mushroom from her plate and deftly ate it. Lady Smallwood smiled and continued with the rest of her appetiser believing she had ‘won’ this round of friendly banter. Mycroft however, patted his mouth with his napkin and stood to excuse himself.

“Pardon me darling, but I am in need of the toilet, won’t be but a moment.”

“Of course, and with any luck our entrées will be here when you return,” she said before taking a sip of her wine.

Mycroft smiled and headed for the nearest loo. Once inside he dismissed the attendee and walked to the sink. Stoppering the sink he filled it with cold water and leaned over to splash his face. The coolness on his heated skin felt nice, and woke him a bit. He dampened a hand towel, and ensuring it did not drip, placed it over the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to just be, and to hope that it would be enough to get through this dinner. _He didn’t understand, his exhaustion had dissipated somewhat after he had finished his work. The paperwork, though long, hadn’t taken much effort, simply willpower. He had a few minutes to rest his eyes, even though it had been disturbed by the ticking clock. He had been doing so well, perhaps the water will do its job and he can finish his dinner in peace._

He opened his eyes only to find Eurus in the mirror standing behind him. He froze. He blinked rapidly, only to discover that Eurus wasn’t the woman she was now, but the child she had been. _You look funny grown up._ Mycroft shivers and turns around, the space behind him is empty, as is the mirror when he turns back. Mycroft sighs, removes the hand towel from his neck, dries his face and pulls the stop on the sink. He exits, allowing the attendee to return to his post. When Mycroft was in sight of his table, the waiter was just setting down their meals.

“Arriving just in time I see,” Mycroft said as he took his seat.

“Yes and our meals look divine, but no worries I won’t swipe anything this time.” Lady Smallwood smiled and picked up her utensils to cut her scallops. They were perfectly done and were paired with gratinated cauliflower covered in a blend of mozzarella and cheddar cheese.

Normally Mycroft loved cheese, and food in general, but at the moment he seemed to have lost his appetite. He picked up his fork and knife, intending to cut into his meat. However, in the candlelight his meal of medium rare venison, and roasted parsnip and peanuts salad looked oily and overdone. He’s never had a bad meal at the Dorchester before but it would seem his exhaustion has ruined that too. Not wanting to draw attention to himself he began to cut his meat into bite sized pieces. Smaller than usual, so that when he inevitably wound up pushing his food around like a petulant child he could claim the pieces made it seem that he had eaten less than he had. Once his meat was cut he allowed himself to gaze out the window to enjoy the moonlit park. Only to catch a glimpse of his parents seated two tables away. His eyes widened and he quickly turned to look at them dead on, only to discover his eyes had played tricks on him. They were not his parents, but another couple roughly their age. He remained tense, he didn’t like how the evening was developing. _He couldn’t even have a nice evening out with a close colleague._

“Mycroft, are you feeling quite well?” Lady Smallwood was looking at him with concern, her fork and knife poised mid cut. “You turned rather quickly there and you seem flushed.”

“I simply thought I saw someone I knew, rather unexpectedly.” He waived off her frowning concern and returned to his meal. Despite the oily look of his salad he ate it with as much gusto as he could dredge up. He hoped he looked convincing he didn’t want to seem like a _kiss ass paper pushing position in the mundane government isn’t work Mycroft! His brother’s face was sneering twisting in an unflattering way._

“Mycroft!” came Alicia Smallwood’s firm shout. She was cross looking, and leant forward, she’d obviously been trying to get his attention for some time now.

He felt a brief wetness on his leg. Observing himself and his setting he noticed he had knocked over his wine, and dropped his utensils harshly onto his plate at some point. His heart was beating out of control, he was sweating profusely and he felt a bit like a caged animal. He quickly grabbed the napkin he had forgotten to place in his laptop and began dabbing at the spillage on his trousers and then the table. A waiter arrived and began quickly righting the mess.

“Forgiven me I seem to have-”

“Enough Mycroft, this is the second panic attack you’ve had in less than twelve hours.”

“Panic attack? Sec- second?” he stuttered.

“Are you forgetting your outburst this afternoon?” Lady Smallwood tapped the thin line on her nose. “I had hoped that you simply needed a bit of relaxation and that our meeting this afternoon would be mutually beneficial.”

“Alicia, I am simply tired and in need of-” he began, trying to gain back some control of himself and the conversation.

“Mr. Holmes you are in need of far more than a morning off. Your actions and inability to inform me of your state despite my numerous inquiries have left you only one option.” She spoke fiercely and clipped. “The committee’s visitation arrangement between your brother and sister will stand. As will my offer for a visit by your parents. However, you are not to be involved in the monitoring of the situation or your regular duties for the next three weeks. At which point you will accompany your family for the visitation. You will then be examined by a physician chosen by the committee.”

“Lady Smallwood please let me-”

“No Mycroft. We cannot trust your mind as it currently stands. We will manage Britain’s affairs for the next three weeks, you will not be needed. Go home and rest.” She called for a waiter, cancelling their desserts and asking for the bill.

Lady Smallwood left shortly after Mycroft paid for their unfinished meals, to inform the committee of his forced leave.  That is how he found himself in his car being driven home in a sudden deluge of water. Exhausted, embarrassed, ashamed, and most likely the newest gossiping piece at Whitehall come the next work day. If a sociopathic sister, and a drug addled brother didn’t tarnish the Holmes name beyond repair, a frightened and jumpy so called human embodiment of the British Government certainly did.

His driver had pulled up to his house, allowing Mycroft to quickly draw his umbrella and rush to his front door. Once inside he stowed the umbrella in its stand and took the stairs to his bedroom. He was sluggish and emotionally drained, the climb up felt as if it took forever. He didn’t bother to look at the portraits, only stopping in the hall long enough to remove the battery from the clock to stop it’s insistent ticking. Safely in his room he divested himself of his clothes, dropping them as he walked towards the bathroom. He stepped into the shower and turning it on, turned the spray to its hottest setting. He didn’t know how long he stood there, just standing under its prickly blast head leaned against the side wall, but he eventually turned it off not even bothering to properly wash. He left his clothes where the fell, and continued to his wardrobe selecting only the bottoms of a pyjama set. He took them into his bedroom, slipped them on and crawled under the duvet. It didn’t matter that he was technically dirty, that his suit was stained and would wrinkle, that his skin was still wet and clinging to the duvet’s fabric. All that mattered was he could finally sleep and that he was ruined.


	3. ...And Not A Drop To Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, my muse refused to show up. However, this chapter still ended up being far longer than I initially planned. Sorry if the italicized...everything, makes it difficult to read, I wanted to be clear that it was all taking place in his head. I can change it if it shows to be too big of a challenge, just let me know.

_“Tick Tock! Tickets please!” The smiling and crazed visage of James Moriarty appears on the damnable screen again. Whirring alarms and flashing red lights reverberate around and encase the room. Mycroft is advocating for Dr. Watson’s death._

_“Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with...and we can get to work.” Mycroft is putting as much heat and loathing as he can into his words. Sherlock must shoot him, losing another best friend would destroy him._

_“We can get to work,” asked Sherlock incredulously. “You haven’t worked a day in your life!”_

_“What on Earth are you talking about Sherlock” Mycroft inquired angrily._

_Good it’s working Sherlock is becoming incensed, John means too much to him. If Mycroft can continue to keep Sherlock’s emotions ramped up he won’t have to think, he won’t have to choose, and he hopefully will be able to let go of the guilt of killing his own brother._

_“A kiss ass paper pushing position in the mundane government isn’t work Mycroft” sneered Sherlock._

_Mycroft knows Sherlock is reacting just as he wants him to, emotional not logical. However, Sherlock’s words still hurt. Sherlock can’t mean them, he looks up to Mycroft despite their differences, even Mrs. Hudson thinks so. Something isn’t right, something is wrong with Sherlock. He’s stressed, he’s emotionally distraught. Mycroft has to keep attacking John though, if he defends himself Sherlock will stop feeling and start thinking. He wants Sherlock to live with the least amount of guilt possible, he hopes Sherlock doesn’t dwell on his final words to him. Sherlock dwelling on harsh words spat while goaded will do him no favours. Right, time to be a soldier. He looks to his brother to begin his rebuttal, he blinks, ready to verbally eviscerate him. In the space of that blink however, he is transported. He is no longer inside the walls of Sherrinford but instead finds himself alone in his childhood bedroom at Musgrave._

_Mycroft examines his surroundings. His mahogany writing desk sits off to the right, behind the door, hidden from his mother’s sight. He never liked having her read his school work over his shoulder, and it was easier to hide snacks if she couldn’t see them the moment she opened the door. Every wall was lined with shelves of books, and the bits of walls not covered by the shelves held maps. There was one window on the far wall, large and split into three panels. It was surrounded by heavy blue drapes, and looked out onto the funny little graveyard.  His four poster bed sits central on the right side of the room, the curtains are missing because they frighten Sherlock. He thinks they look like ripped sails whenever he hides here during night time thunder storms. Ripped sails mean death for a Captain and his crew, Mycroft can’t have that._

_At the foot of the bed is his grandfather’s old school trunk, passed on to his father, and it now sits here. Mycroft had adored it, once upon a time, and its memory clearly still held weight. The trunk is made of wood, old leather, and brass. The leather is worn and crinkled in few spots but, it’s thankfully still fully attached and not torn. The smooth parts are as soft as butter or a baby’s skin depending on who you ask. The brass shines like new, the only dark spots are found on the bottom braces, from rubbing the floor for over half a century. Mycroft had buffed, polished, and treated them to no avail, the spots would stay._

_The inside of the trunk contained many baskets and dividers in both the main storage and in the lid of the trunk. In the lid was the typical drop down compartment, coin box, and lithograph. The lithograph depicted the Holmes family crest. Contrary to popular belief their branch of Holmes’ weren’t the English ones, but the Irish. After the family split off from Scotland to settle in Ireland there had been a terrible argument between the family head and a grandson. The grandson left, taking the crest with him. However, the College of Arms wouldn’t grant him presentation rights unless he edited the crest. A simply colour change of the encircling leaves from gold and azure to azure and vert, and a shape change for the knight’s head granted him presentation rights._

_The crest now printed onto the wood of the trunk lid was the crest of his seven times great grandfather Kenn Dour Holmes. As previously stated the surrounding leaves were azure and vert, azure meaning the family held truth and loyalty important. Vert, was the interesting bit, the choice was one Mycroft didn’t think he would have made. Though it was so the appropriate one. The argument between Kenn and his grandfather’s had been because Kenn had fallen for and English woman, and his grandfather hadn’t approved. Kenn, though not disowned from the family, had been asked to leave. Thus vert, meaning hope, joy, and loyalty in love, had been chosen as the colour change. As Kenn had not been officially disowned, the rest of the crest had remained true to the Irish seat. It was a standard shield, no furs, displaying alternating wavy stripes of azure and gold. The family had been honoured with a canton, which contained a lion. The waves of the shield’s stripes meant water, fitting considering the root of Holmes was holme. Water was a recurring theme in their family, it was reflected in Kenn Dour Holmes and in his own name, Mycroft. He was an islet in a fen and the mouth of the stream. One would think this would mean he would have some connection or affinity with the blasted element, but he couldn’t even skip a blasted rock. The lion as always meant bravery, valour, strength, and ferocity. He always associated such puffed up insipid traits with the local troglodytes, meaning most everyone else. The gold was something Mycroft truly related to, the only real part he could identify with in all of the crest. Gold, Or, tended to mean generosity but it also meant the elevation of the mind. Mycroft was the smart one, always hungry for more information, it didn’t matter what it was._

_The most interesting thing about the lithograph wasn’t the crest itself but, that if you pressed firmly on the centre of the knight it would release the board it was printed on, revealing a small secret compartment in the lid. Mycroft had been gifted the trunk a few months before Sherlock had been born, it had been stored in the attic and had been found when his parents were looking for the family cradle. The family cradle had been getting repaired when he had been born and thus he slept in Rutherford cradle, Rutherford-Clarke being his mother’s maiden name. The Holmes cradle was returned to his parents a few months later, and it was stored in the attic and forgotten about until it was needed again. Seven year old Mycroft loved the trunk, and as curious as he was, soon found the compartment. Something apparently his father knew nothing about, as inside he found two gold rings, the very rings he wears now. They were the only things he could grab before the fire had engulfed this side of the house._

_Focusing once more on the trunk, Mycroft looked at the main compartment. It was lidded with a panel made of the same wood as the rest of the trunk and displayed another lithograph. This one depicted the cover of the 11 January 1928 issue of The Sexton Blake Library. That issue was entitled The Mystery of the Masked Surgeon. It showed two surgeons, one Masked obviously, standing over a man on a slab. The Masked one poised a scalpel over the man’s chest, and in the door stood a shadowy figure. The magazine cover was obviously far more important to his grandfather than the family motto that originally donned the board, as it was partially covered by the bottom of the new lithograph. The motto was in an azure ribbon, written in gold: Fide sed cui vide. Trust, but in whom take care. As family mottos weren’t popularised until the 17 th century, and aren’t regulated by the College of Arms as they are optional, his family had taken the English Holmes motto for their own._

_Mycroft left his room,  no longer capable of looking at things that once were, and because he needed to know how and why he was in his childhood home instead of with Sherlock and Dr. Watson. He turned right to head towards the main staircase. Along the way he passed portraits of his ancestors, none would survived the fire. There were others, some copies that had been painted as spares, some simply taken down due to how often they frightened small children, in storage. The ones in storage would eventually hang in Mycroft’s own home. The main staircase had two landings and two branches as it was located in the foyer just in front of the main door. Mycroft was on the second floor and thus the second landing. As he descended he looked into the ornate grand mirror on the wall. He stopped in his tracks. Instead of seeing the man that he was, looking back at him was the boy he had been. Portly, in a brown knitted jumper and white button up shirt peeking out at the collar, black slacks, and oxfords. Bringing his hand up to inspect he noticed the mirror one was young, thick, and without his ring but, the hand in front of him was aged, slender, and wore a ring. Something is very very wrong._

_“Mycie! I asked you to set the table fifteen minutes ago! What have you been doing up there?”_

_Whipping around quickly to the cross voice of his mother, Mycroft stared. Her hair was no longer silver and pinned neatly atop her head but, blonde curly and hung loosely falling just below her shoulders. Ever the one to ignore the societal expectations of women, mummy ignored the preferred dresses. Instead she wore a maroon blouse, grey slacks, and black court heels._

_“Do not stand there gaping, get to it” mummy snapped._

_Confused and offset by these strange events, Mycroft quickly descended the staircase and went towards the dining room. However, when he crossed the threshold between the sitting room and the dining room, the room changed into the kitchen of the cottage they inhabited after the fire. Looking over his shoulder he found the sitting room at Musgrave. He turned back, puzzled._

_“Mycroft stop dawdling and set the table as your mother has asked,” came his father’s voice from behind him._

_Mycroft crossed to the table and began setting four places, though the table was inexplicably large enough to sit six. He paused, a plate in mid air, this may be the cottage’s kitchen but it was located at Musgrave. He resumed setting the table, this time for five. His heart pounded, he was going to face Eurus again, but which one. After he finished he looked up to find his father sitting on the couch, opposite the door, reading the paper. He never read the paper there, only in his study where he couldn’t be bothered. He was younger too, as he had been at Musgrave. He sat with one leg over the opposing knee, in brown slacks, a white button up shirt, and a navy sweater vest. Mycroft frowned, daddy didn’t wear sweater vests until after he retired, he wore suit jackets like Sherlock does now. Mycroft’s mind says everything is as it should be but, Mycroft’s gut says something is terribly wrong. He knows he was with Sherlock and Dr. Watson’s at Sherrinford egging his brother on, and that this kitchen does not belong where he now stands. Yet he feels complacent, that this site is actually how things are meant to be. Could he be dreaming? He shakes his head and flails his arms trying to bump and jostle himself awake, but nothing changes, he’s clearly here for keeps._

_“Stop dancing about. You never took to your lessons seriously anyway,” was his father’s response. “Go and wash up before your siblings come in.” He peered over his paper waiting for Mycroft to comply._

_Mycroft turned and walked over to the kitchen sink, scrunched up the sleeves of his jacket and shirt, and turned on the tap._

_“What are you doing you idiot boy,” his father bellowed. Standing and his mouth set in a firm line he pointed out towards the foyer. “To the loo with you!”_

_Mycroft startled, and feeling more like a child than he had previously, dashed from the room and to the toilet down the hall. Once inside he quickly completed washed his face and hands. After drying himself he left and returned to the misplaced kitchen. Despite being gone no more than a minute or two he found his parents and the child versions of his siblings already mid meal. His parents sat at the heads of the table while Eurus and Sherlock sat side by side, leaving him alone on the opposite side. Sherlock wore a red knitted jumper layered over a blue and brown checked shirt, and brown corduroy trousers. Eurus wore a pale purple dress, her hair once more in pigtails. Taking his seat Mycroft received a cross look from his mother but was otherwise left to fix his plate. They were having mash, parsnips, mushy peas, and roasted chicken. He served himself a little of each focusing on the peas and parsnips, and only serving about a tablespoon of mash as all the butter and salt wasn’t good for his diet._

_“You look funny grown up.” Eurus said unblinkingly. Her gaze seemed to look directly into his soul and it unnerved him._

_“Eurus darling just because Myc has decided to finally start serving himself proper portions does not make him a grown up.” Mummy said sternly. “Adults respond quickly and efficiently to their superiors and do as they are asked immediately.” She looked at him with a raised eyebrow, still cross from his earlier slight._

_“But daddy doesn’t always listen to you mummy. Last week when you asked him to give us a healthy snack he gave me and Eurus biscuits instead of the celery he gave Mycie.” Sherlock chimed in, smiling around his spoonful of mash._

_“Eurus and I, darling. It would seem your father needs a refresher in how to follow instructions.” Mummy gave daddy a glare that held no real heat. “And as long as he was conscious enough to give Myc something healthy then he at least paid enough attention to my directions to glean the important facts.”_

_Her words once more shook Mycroft, he was clearly an adult sitting at this table across from child shadows of his siblings and younger parents. This couldn’t be real. Perhaps if he argued he could shake loose and wake up._

_“Mummy please, I am clearly an adult. Look at how I’m dressed, I’m in a three piece from Savile Row. I am tall, lean, and balding for fucks sake. This is clearly a delusion created by my sleep deprived brain as I lay unconscious in my bed.” Mycroft snarked, sneering at her._

_“Mycroft Alistair Arthur Holmes! I haven’t the foggiest clue as to what has gotten into you but you will not speak to your mother that way.” His father seethed, harshly placing his silverware on his plate, causing a clatter. “You are the oldest and are expected to set a proper example for your younger siblings. You are to be respectful, watchful, and are expected to hold your tongue when an adult speaks. You will have tact and not announce you frothy fanciful deductions, but keep them to yourself.” He settled back into his chair, picked up his silverware and resumed cutting his chicken. “You’ll not be given pudding, now finish your dinner.”_

_Mycroft was shocked at his father’s rant, it wasn’t like him, and he was struggling to keep his emotional mask in place. He swallowed and focused his energy on the food in front of him. The table was silent, awkwardly so. Sherlock pushed his mushy peas around his plate, most likely having lost his appetite. His father silently but for forcefully  continued to cut his chicken and pile small bits of vegetables onto his fork with each piece. Eurus had her head tilted to her plate, seemingly a frightened child making herself small after an outburst. However, she was looking up through her eyelashes, staring at him. Mummy silently, and in a gentler fashion than her husband, continued with her meal._

_“Mycie dear, I don’t know what’s come over you but it’s simply worrying that a boy your age would insist upon such a fanciful description of one’s self. Darling you are sitting here in your favourite jumper and slacks, not a three piece suit. You are young and your hair is styled in a business cut, not balding. I still love you child but you are rather large for a boy your age and you are not lean dear. Whatever is the matter? Why can’t you behave more like Sherlock, he’s so mature and smart for his age. His little deductions are even cute compared to you and Eurus. You are the eldest and should be setting the example, not your little brother.”_

_Mycroft snapped._

_“I watch over Sherlock and Eurus. I make sure they are safe, dry, fed, and I try my hardest to challenge them. I eat so much not because I eat large portions to start out but because Sherlock is such a finicky eater. When he starts pushing his food around and trying to make it look like he ate a large portion I swap plates with him. Thus I end up eating double or triple what I should have, because some days I am starving and pile my plate too high, forgetting I’ll end up swapping with Sherlock. I am older and should be more active, if I were a normal child I could claim my school work is more difficult and thus I spend more time on it. But I’m not, I finish my work quickly and I’m starved for more. I go to the family library every day to feast on the knowledge within. I do not shout out my deductions, that would be crass. I manipulate the situation to get what I want, it’s easier that way. Sherlock is the crass one, he observes and then he simply states it, he doesn’t care for politeness only the attention that comes with seeing what others refuse to. I try and keep Eurus contained, entertained, and to show some semblance of normal human responses. I shield them both from your expectations, and the jeers of outsiders. I am neat, punctual, and polite, even when I’d rather tell everyone what goldfish they are being. I do my chores as I am asked, I entertain adult dinner guests that neither of you wish to be in contact with, yet you invited them any way. I comfort Sherlock when it storms, I give Eurus increasingly challenging tomes, I walk them both to school, leaving early so that I will arrive before the bell at mine. I help father garden and repair the old stone fences in the spring, and I bring the latest mathematics journal home from the library for you to peruse even though you insist that part of your life is over. So forgive me mummy dearest for being fat, I am simply too busy to run about the country side because I must keep this family afloat. I have a father who bumbles about because he can’t truly connect with his genius wife and children, a mother who regrets leaving her career path and is trying her hardest not to notice that her eldest child can’t connect with children his age because they are too slow, her middle child is developing an eating disorder and suffers from sensory overload, and her youngest is quite possibly a psychopath and certainly can not FEEL pain!” By now Mycroft is standing and screaming at his mother. He is enraged and years of slights, too high expectations, and general stress come tumbling out. He is red in the face, his tie feels too tight, and his wild gestures have wrinkled his attire._

_His mother doesn’t speak, but she looks at him with an icy look that is so cold it burns. Sherlock and Eurus stared wide eyed and sit unmoving, though for different reasons. Sherlock is plainly and clearly frightened. He sits stiffly, hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles are white, his bottom lip is quivering, and he is holding back tears. Eurus on the other hand, is fascinated. She is leaning forward, so much so that her torso is lightly pressed into her mushy peas. Her mouth is slightly open and her eyes dart between he and mummy. The silence is interrupted by the scrape of a chair on the kitchen floor. His father stands stiffly, his face a mask of rage._

_“How dare you.” He hisses in an icy tone. “We provide EVERYTHING for you. We feed you, clothe you, keep a roof over you head, and supply with all of your precious books. And you have the audacity to sit here and yell at your mother, to besmirch MY name, and to frighten your siblings. All you can think is me me me. You are a spoiled awful child. We sacrifice so much for you, and ask for so little in return. Yet here you are hurting us and giving this whiny speech full of outright LIES!” His father bellows, his hands shaking at his sides. “Go to your room and do not come out until we say you can. Your mother and I will discuss the appropriate punishment for this egregious display of unwarranted anger, and then I will be up to deliver it.” He seethed._

_Mycroft clenched his jaw and spun around to leave. However, he did not turn left towards the stairs but right towards the front door. He was leaving this mad house and he was leaving it now! He stormed through the door, slamming it behind him...only to be met by the four walls of his room. That can’t be right. He yanks open the door only for him to be greeted by the hallway of the second floor, and his father’s voice shouting up the stairs._

_“I said to stay put Mycroft, until we say you can come out!”_

_Mycroft slammed the door shut. Fine. He paced the length of the room, window to door, door to window. Repeat. He wasn’t here before, all of this was an elaborate illusion. Had he been drugged? How did he get back to Sherrinford? He needed to know Sherlock was alright, and that Eurus was once more contained. There must be something in the room that would give him answers. He could hear two small sets of feet on the stairs. Sherlock and Eurus had finished their pudding then, and must have been sent to their rooms so mummy and daddy could discuss his punishment. That’s fine he wouldn’t be here anyway, and they clearly weren’t his siblings, he must remember that. He belonged in Sherrinford, no matter the elaborate tale his sense were spinning for him._

_Right, first thing, how did he get here? He had  blinked. Before he blinked he was looking at Sherlock, yet when he opened his eyes he was looking at his grandfather’s trunk. If this is another of Eurus’ games then the answer was with the trunk. He walked over to it, kneeled down, and flung open the lid. There once more, as he remembered it, was the family crest. It mocked him. According to his father’s words and actions tonight he had besmirched the family name. He might has well have said he held no Holmesian traits or values. It was a lie of course.  Mycroft did hold the family values, he just didn’t interpret them the way a slower minded person would. He was loyal if you could earn his trust, he was loving and courageous, in his own way. Though he chose to view the gold of the crest as the elevation of the mind, he also expressed generosity, but not in a monetary way. He generously shared his intellect with the world, keeping it from harm. He spoke truthfully but not in an overt fashion. He had the strength of stormy oceanic waters, yet hid it in the undertow of a seemingly calm river. To be truthful he was a paragon of Holmesian traits._

_Mycroft ran his hand over the crest, then firmly pressed it to reveal the compartment behind it. It looked empty, and running his hand along the back and over the edges confirmed it. If the answer were in the trunk, it wasn’t here. He turned his focus to the compartments in the lid, but they too revealed nothing. Sighing he removed the divider that split the rest of the trunk from the lid, running his eyes once more over the family motto. He feels as if he followed it to a tee, he trusted so very few after all. Three to five people and not a one of them did he trust completely and without some doubt. He trusted his brother with certain cases, but not to look after himself his track record spoke for itself after all. He trusted Dr. Watson to look after his brother, but even he could let himself be dragged into dangerous situations, at least they never went headlong into them alone. He trusted Inspector Lestrade to supply his brother with cases and to watch over certain government cases, he was a good man but far too busy to be fully involved with anything more. He trusted Mrs. Hudson to look after the lot of them, and to stand her ground when they were being...mundane and emotional. Mrs. Hudson however, was aging and quite frankly didn’t care for him, no matter how well he meant. Lady Smallwood was an old colleague, but not infallible as the Magnussen and Amo situations showed. Five people he could trust with an array of things but, none of them could be fully trusted, especially with himself._

_Turning his mind back to the contents of the trunk he removed two hat boxes, one empty, one containing Sherlock’s old pirate hat. The hat was worn and oddly damp, but otherwise provided no helpful information. Next came a shirt box, it was empty as well. The only box left in the trunk was the document box. Removing it and searching it’s contents Mycroft found an envelope with his name on it, written in his mother’s hand. Still infuriated by her earlier attacks he sat it aside, unopened. A letter from his mother would not have the answer to this situation he found himself in. If this were truly a puzzle from Eurus she would use their mother as the source of the answer, they never bonded properly, yet another oddity surrounding his dear sister._

_Standing once more Mycroft frustratingly ran a hand through his hair exasperated. He was positive the answer would have been in the trunk. His tie still felt tight about his neck, so he removed both it and his suit jacket, throwing them to the bed. He rolled up his sleeves, because apparently leaving this place would require more work than he initially thought. He was about to look at his pocket watch to discern how much time he’d been here when he heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. His father then. Fine, he would hear what ‘daddy dearest’ had to say about his ‘punishment’. The door opened._

_“Your mother and I have had quite the discussion about your behaviour, boy.” He said lightly, but stood stiffly. In his hands was a long young green branch from a tree in the back yard. “Now in the days of old our ancestors employed a great many servants, including a Whipping Boy. As you know we have never employed anyone in your lifetime, and the practice of keeping such a servant has fallen out of practice.” His father paused, smirking. “Given these facts, your mother has decided that you may choose between two punishments. You can either receive thirteen lashes or you can play with your sister.” His father sneered at the last punishment. “Your mother feels that you’ve been favouring Sherlock and ignoring your sister. She believes making you follow the exact instruction of someone younger would make you realise just how crass your earlier statements were. Well?”_

_Both punishments were absolutely ludicrous, but the lashes would only hinder his escape and eventually assistance to Sherlock._

_“I’ll play with Eurus.” He stated._

_“Fine.” His father grumbled. “But know that if you don’t follow her exact instructions you will be whipped instead.” He stepped to the side, revealing Eurus behind him, then left shutting the door behind him._

_“Mycie! Thanks so much for choosing to play with me!” She gave a smile that was all teeth, like a wolf baring it’s fangs. “We’re going to play Damsel in Distress! And guess what big brother, YOU’RE the damsel!” Her eyes glinted excitedly, producing a long thick rope from seemingly nowhere. He didn’t like where this was going, but he kept his mouth shut, lest his father return with the whip._

_“Stand next to the pole there Mycie! I’m going to tie you up good and tight.”_

_Mycroft backed against the bed, making muscles taunt so he would have more room inside his bounds when he relaxed. Eurus climbed onto the bed behind him, humming that nonsense tune of hers. He could feel the rope cutting into his arms as she pulled it tight and knotted it. She jumped down and spun to face him._

_“There, all nice and snug Mycie! Now damsel, we have to...distress you” she grinned wickedly, pulling a small box from the pocket of her dress. “Your bed doesn’t have any curtains big brother. That’s ok, the drapes and bedding will suffice.” She paused, looking at him. “Oh! I’ve forgotten something.”_

_She leapt onto the bed grabbing his tie and producing a terry cloth from who knows where. She quickly stuffed the cloth into his mouth and bound it with his tie before he could spit it out._

_“Ah ah brother mine, wouldn’t want me to get daddy would you?” She chuckled behind him._

_He didn’t dare relax his muscles yet, Eurus would only tie his restraints tighter, he needed the wiggle room afforded himself. From behind him he heard the tale tell sound of a match being lit._

_“Distress time, big brother.” She quickly jumped down, running to the drapes and lit those ablaze. “Ta bro!” she ran from the room._

_Mycroft relaxed his muscles and began to wiggle about in his slightly looser restraints. He didn’t bother screaming, though he could feel heat behind him knowing the bed was on fire as well, no one would hear him through the gag. The fire of the drapes had somehow already spread to the surrounding shelves, on both sides. The room was extremely hot and filled with smoke. How? Not nearly enough time had passed. It was hard to breathe, and even though only his torso was bound to the bed he couldn’t seem to wiggle free. He gave a forceful pull of his shoulder, finally angling himself to shimmy out. Once free he removed the gag, and used the cloth to cover his mouth, protecting himself somewhat from the smoke. He could barely see anything, and his skin was hot from the flames.  He made it to the door, only to discover it was jammed. And not only that, the handle was heating up, rapidly. Eurus had set all of Musgrave ablaze. He needed to get out and quick, but how? From behind him he hears the trunk shake. The trunk WAS the key._

_Running over to it and peering inside he notices a latch at the bottom he hadn’t seen before. Prying it open it revealed a trap door into a dark hole, a damp breeze coming from it. Without thinking he jumped into the trunk and through the door.  He landed with a splash. Looking up he found himself in a well, and no sign of the burning room he had just left behind. He feels something constrict around his ankle. He attempts to shake it loose, only to hear chains sloshing in the water. Lifting his leg he discover that he is in fact chained to the bottom of the well. Water begins rapidly pouring in. He hears giggles above him. He looks up to see his mother,  not the shade he had been dealing with but, his actual mother._

_“Mummy please help me!” he shouts desperately to her. “Call a rescue team! Hurry, I’m chained and the well is filling up!” The water was to his knees now. “Mummy!” His mother didn’t move._

_“Why on Earth would I do that, you idiot boy?” she sneered. Just then Sherlock and his father appeared at her side, the three of them peering into the well._

_“Daddy! Brother! Please help me!” he was begging now._

_“Why should we do that? You’re the smart one.” Sherlock taunted._

_“Better you down there, boy. You never did embody Holmesian traits anyway. How could you, you never slept in the proper cradle.” Shouted his father._

_The water was mid chest now. He needed help, he needed his family._

_“Your family? Don’t make me laugh.” It was Eurus, adult Eurus, scrubs and all._

_“Eurus, this isn’t funny! Get me out of here!” he was beginning to hyperventilate, to panic._

_“Why? We don’t need you. You lie, you manipulate. You hurt mummy and daddy. Why would they need you when they can have me?”_

_“You said it yourself Mycroft. You’re remarkable but why have that in our family when we could have an age defining genius?” Sherlock replied._

_“I gave up my career for you and yet you became such a disappointment. Not like Sherlock and Eurus, they are so much better. I should have just cast you aside when they came along, no need to keep the rubbish about.”_

_“You’re just pointless, boy. We probably wouldn’t have noticed you were dead if Eurus hadn’t brought us here to watch.” His father shouted into the depths. The response bouncing off the walls and the neck high water, echoing._

_“You serve no purpose, you are not needed, your job can function without you, you are meaningless.” The group of them jeered in unison._

_It didn’t matter he could barely hear them from under the water. Why didn’t they save him? Why were they being so cruel? He loved them, did they not love him? He couldn’t breathe, his lungs were filled with water. It was getting dark and there was something tightening around his neck. He was going numb, and stilling in the water._

**BEEEEEEEP!!!!!!!!**

The sound of his alarm caused Mycroft to jerk awake, almost tossing himself from the bed. He was soaked through with sweat and he was completely tangled in the duvet. Part of it was wrapped around his throat, the rest twisting around his arms and along one leg. He lay there panting, unable to stop the terrible noise from his phone. Gaining some sort of strength he freed himself from the bedding, and silenced the alarm. He rubbed at his face, releasing a shaky breath. It was 5:30, he’d slept for eight hours, far longer than he usually did, and yet he still felt like shit. Perhaps his current punishment from Lady Smallwood would be a blessing.


	4. I Sense There's Something In The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I would try to get a chapter up by the end of June....I really did try honest. I am continuing this story but updates will most likely be sporadic as I'm job hunting and dealing with post uni stress and some family stuff. But, I'm going to do my best not to have months between chapters, hopefully I can post something at least every three weeks. Thanks to everyone who's still keeping up with this, I love each and every one of you!

Mycroft just lay in bed, face slackened into an exhausted stupor. He could feel the bags under his eyes, heavy and sore. He couldn’t bring himself to care. The nightmare was still fresh, still misting about in the background of his sleep deprived mind. He knew he should simply roll over and attempt to fall back asleep, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He couldn’t even make himself refocus his eyes as he stared unseeing at the ceiling. Mycroft closes his eyes allowing himself to pretend he will go back to bed. Instead he shifts the lower half of his body until his feet rests on the floor, torso still on the bed and eyes still closed. He feels as if he could sleep like this despite the odd arch of his back. Opening his eyes with a sigh, he stands, slouching slightly and makes his way to the bathroom. He strips off his pyjama bottoms and tosses them with the clothes from the previous night. He turns the water to its hottest setting as he had before bed, this time however, he will properly wash.

Grabbing an exfoliating loofah and stepping under the spray he reaches for his body wash. Its cedar scented and a gift from Mrs. George, though it’s nearly empty and Mycroft will have to enquire where she had gotten it from so he could get more. He rather liked its scent, it was both earthy and had a sweet undertone. He squeezed a generous amount onto the loofah, a bit wasteful but he desperately wanted to feel clean. He ran the spongy thing over his neck and arms first, those being the points on his body feeling the most stressed and in need of a good scrub. He could still feel the twisted imprints from the duvet. His left bicep had a particularly deep indentation and he sat the loofah aside so that he could massage it. He turned so that most the hot spray focused on his bicep. He began running small gentle circles into the indentation, but stopped after only a few. The mark had begun to sting and Mycroft could see a small red tear in the indentation. A rope burn. He had gotten a rope burn from the bloody duvet because of that blasted nightmare.

Mycroft’s face was now contorted into an angry scowl. He was furious with himself, and to be honest, embarrassed. He turned back proper under the spray and picked up the loofah once more. He finished washing quickly, inspected his left leg, thankfully that limb held no further damage aside from the shallow red mark. He rinsed himself and reached for his shampoo. It was a cheap 99p bottle in raspberry scent. He had acquired it a few days before Sherlock invaded his home with that clown. He had been out and in a hurry so he instructed his driver to pick something up before the end of the day. The stress and urgency in his tone must have made his driver dash to the nearest shop to appease him. In this case it was a near by Londis, he’s lucky he didn’t pick up the tea tree scented one, Mycroft loathes the scent of tea tree. He uses his shampoo’s paired conditioner and finishes up.

He steps from the shower not bothering to towel off just yet. Instead he reaches for the face wash he keeps on the side of the sink. It’s unscented and suited for sensitive skin. He washes his face and rinses, first with lukewarm water and then again with cold to seal his pores. Now he towels off, first his hair then his body, wrapping the towel around his hips. He has a bit of stubble forming but as he has no plans to leave the house he decided to leave it be for today. He’s still drained from the nightmare as well, he just can’t muster the energy to care as much about his appearance. He reaches for his toothbrush and toothpaste but before he applies it to the brush he stops. He puts the regular toothpaste away and reaches into the lighted cabinet above the sink. He pulls out the cinnamon toothpaste he orders special, Americans favour it apparently, and Mycroft finds that occasionally he prefers the taste to his usual brand. He works quickly, brushing thoroughly, and rinses first with water and then his mouth wash. He should floss but he’ll do that after dinner as he normally would. His dentist has been at him for his sweet tooth, again. So, he has been trying to be more diligent in his oral care.

Morning hygiene rituals complete, he leaves the bathroom headed for the wardrobe, he picks up his discarded clothes as he goes. Mycroft tosses the clothes into the hamper near the door along with his towel. Again, as he as no plans to leave the house he heads for a smaller less used section. This section is filled with fine jumpers, dress pants, and button up shirts. Though none are designer, as his suits are, each and everyone are tailored and made of expensive material. He selects a deep red jumper made of vicuna, a white button up, and a pair of wool dress pants in charcoal grey. He grabs a pair of red and yellow argyle socks, and his pair of dark red loafers on the way out. Loafers as the common man knows them are beneath Mycroft. However, these are Manila Loafers from Stuart Wiseman and are made from glossy leather and are both fashionable and comfortable. He takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and put them on before leaving his rooms.

Once down the hall and at the top of the stairs he could smell breakfast being made. He scowled, Lady Smallwood must have informed his driver that his services would not be needed this morning. Meaning Jones, who is known to gossip with his housekeeper, had informed Mrs. George that he would be home in the early hours rather than at the office. He hates gossiping within his staff, but Jones and Mrs. George have never gossiped badly about him, have never mentioned his work specifically, and most importantly are the best at their jobs. He will have a word with Jones, but he will not fire him.

Entering the kitchen Mycroft could see several shopping bags placed along the counters, the floor, and the central island. The only spaces in the kitchen not covered were the cooktop and the counter immediately to its right. The range held four sizzling skillets, each containing the makings of a full English. One pan held both sausage and bacon to save space, though thankfully some of their combined greases had been poured out. Another held Heinz baked beans on a low simmer to keep them warm. The third his eggs, just coming to a perfect sunny side up, and the last skillet held mushrooms and halved tomatoes. Delicious. Just as the toast sprang from the toaster Mycroft called out for Mrs. George who was not immediately visible from the entryway. She emerged from the pantry carrying a jar of apple butter, a spread Mycroft had fallen in love with one Autumn trip to America.

“You’re awake sir,” she said in surprise, “Good, I am nearly finished here. Would you prefer to be served in the dinning room or the sitting room?”

“The sitting room, and I will have green tea with honey this morning.” Mycroft stated before turning and heading towards the sitting room, without waiting for a reply. Once in the room he settled into his favourite chair across from the three-paned window, and grabbed the book he had left sitting on the accompanying end table. **_She Lover of Death_** was a Russian mystery novel from the Erast Fandorin series by Boris Akunin. Mycroft was lucky enough to have the series all in the original Russian and not in a translated mess. Fandorin’s character is comical and annoyingly heroic, and not something he would normally read. However, he had stumbled across the series in an old bookshop in Leicester Square, there had been a 25% mark down of their books in the basement, and any book lover worth their snuff knows the best books are found jammed in the nooks and crannies of basement shelves.  It had only been four months since Sherlock had plummeted to his supposed death, and the summary of the story had sounded something eerily like his brother. He bought this book and two others from the series in a fit of...sentiment. Mycroft had since hunted down the rest of the series. Luckily, the entire series wasn’t an eerie ghost call-back to his brother, though he only really enjoyed **_She Lover of Death_** and **_Murder on the Leviathan._** He was just about to pick up where he left off when Mrs. George entered the room carrying a tray with his breakfast and a cup of tea.

“Here you are Mr. Holmes.” She said, setting the tray down on the table his book had just vacated. “Will you be needing anything else sir?”

“No, go about your duties, but start with tidying that hurricane of bags from the kitchen.” He said, gesturing vaguely towards the kitchen with a grimace on his face. Mrs. George simply nodded and left the room. Which, if you were well acquainted with her, was an odd response. Mrs. Stephanie George was not an elderly or middle aged woman as most would expect. No, Mrs. George was a woman in her early thirties and had trained as a nurse immediately after her A-levels at the University of Surrey. After receiving her degree and official certification at age 23, she and three of her classmates shared a flat in London. Which for the four of them seemed perfect and wonderful and an exciting opportunity, that is until they realised they could only afford to live in Bexley. Now normally Bexley would be deemed decent enough, but for four young nurses working long shifts in various parts of central London the long journey home on public transit was...deplorable and emotionally taxing.

Mrs. George, then Miss Williams, had began to contemplate moving home and working at the local surgery. When one night after a particularly gruelling shift at Lister, she encountered Lieutenant Albert ‘Albie’ George on the train home. Albie was 24 and had only recently returned from Iraq, he was an IT specialist and worked ‘safely’ in the tent as he later described to Stephanie. Normally Stephanie Williams would not have interacted with anyone on a return journey, let alone a British officer but Fate, as she liked to say, intervened. A sloshed uni student had stumbled into their carriage, the designated quiet carriage, and upon spotting Stephanie began...verbally harassing her in a vulgar fashion. Exhausted and drowsy Stephanie had not the energy nor patience to speak up and defend herself. Luckily Mr. George, who was taught the art of chivalry by his grandfather and an iron clad morale code by the army, stepped in. In one swift and silent, except for the sound of fist meeting jaw, move he had the loud and rude uni student unconscious and sleeping off the booze in a nearby seat. Before Albie George had the chance to turn around and acknowledge the women whom he had defended the train pulled into Bexley station and Stephanie was off the train and into the night.

Here, Mrs. George likes to tell her future husband’s side of the story, simply stating that it was more romantic that way. After her departure Albie, had apparently decided that no matter his thoughts on the beauty of the tired looking woman he had intervened for, he could not make himself run through the closing doors after her. After all she owed him nothing and chasing after her when she was clearly tired and going about her evening would be just as unwanted as the harassment from the uni student. Instead the young lieutenant resigned himself to his seat and the final leg of his journey, one stop away, to Crayford. A bit later he disembarked and stepped out into the cold night air. As he walked her grew colder, and in an attempted to keep his hands warm he stuffed them into the pockets of his jacket. He encountered a slip of paper in the left one, which was odd as these pockets had loose openings and were prone to losing things, so he never kept anything in them. Standing next to a bin he pulled the scrap of paper out intending to toss it but a nearby street lamp illuminated the paper enough to show a hastily written number. Further inspection showed it was a phone number, with the name Stephanie written above it.

Had their lives played out as they should have, the phrase ‘and the rest is history’ could have been applied. But alas, Stephanie and Albie did not get to ride off into the sunset of happily ever after.  A year after their marriage, two years after their meeting, lieutenant George had been called from his reserve position in the Royal Yeomanry to Afghanistan. He was a last-minute replacement for the assigned lieutenant for the mission, who had suffered a concussion and a broken femur in a car accident three days before deployment. A six-month stint, long enough for the correct man to heal and pass his PT requirements...six months that would never end for Stephanie George. A widow at 26, instead of a wife or the hoped-for future as a mother. Her mourning period slipped into depression and nothing seemed capable of pulling her out. Her work suffered and she was fired.

It was around this time Mycroft’s former housekeeper retired and he found himself in need of a new one. Which was a difficult task, as he not only needed someone who was extremely adept at normal housekeeping duties, but also someone who could keep their mouths shut. If those weren’t hard enough conditions to fill, Mycroft had one final prerequisite for the position. The hopeful employee had to have some sort of medical training. Though it is rare for Mycroft to be in the field or come to any physical harm, it was always better to have a private medical professional on staff. Though if he were being honest with himself he didn’t need medical help for himself, but for his wayward baby brother. The drugs, the cases, the enemies made. These all took their shot at ending Sherlock, and it was handy to have a professional on hand, especially in the days before Dr. Watson and in the periods of their occasional...spats.

Luckily for Mycroft he was well acquainted with the Head of the nursing department at the University of Surrey, said head was also still in contact with the widowed Mrs. George. A few offhand remarks from Mycroft and the knowledge of a promising young nurse in need of something to live for made the Head reach out to Stephanie. Stephanie George leapt at not so much a fresh start but more at a continued roof over her head. After a week-long interview and vetting process Stephanie George was officially the housekeeper of one Mycroft Holmes.

Quiet at first, Mrs. George began to blossom under Mr. Holmes’ special brand of sarcasm and humour. She was respectful but always offered either a comeback or kind words for her employer. She did her duties exceptionally well, was a self starter, and always seemed to know all the little things Mycroft needed on the day, sometimes days in advance. Mrs. George’s lack of any sort of quip to his ‘hurricane of bags’ comment was most definitely worrisome. However, Mycroft simply couldn’t make himself inquire about it, he was still shaky from his nightmare and he simply wanted to enjoy a hot meal and his book. _Caring is not an advantage_. He could still feel the irony and sting from his most recently revealed attempt at caring. If he’d just treated Eurus as every other prisoner and not given her treats or asked for help with confidential government files in the first place this never would have happened. If he had just listened to his own advice for once in his life, innocent people wouldn’t have died. Though an argument could be made against one of the Garridebs. But that wasn’t the point. Eurus got out, Eurus killed people, had nearly killed Dr. Watson and caused Sherlock to turn the bullet meant for Mycroft on himself. It was bad enough he couldn’t solve the bloody song as a teenager, especially as the answer was in the fucking front yard, and save young Victor Trevor. No. He had to let sentiment cloud his mind, he wanted Eurus safe and as happy as possible, he wanted Mummy and Daddy to be spared the pain of knowing their youngest was alive but a murderer they could never see, and most of all he wanted to shield Sherlock from the pain and ramifications of his long-buried memories of his once best friend. He had failed each and everyone of them. Mummy and Daddy were beyond cross with him, Sherlock felt betrayed and was finally grieving, and Eurus had retreated into her mind. And he was the source of all their suffering... _perhaps the world would be better if he had never existed. No. That is a dangerous train of thought and untruthful. The world and his family needed him. They may be cross, but with time things would improve._

He shook his head and let himself focus on his food, after all he didn’t want to eat cold eggs. He cut up everything so that he could eat with one hand and hold his book in the other. Mrs. George had outdone herself despite her odd behaviour. The meal was perfection and his book relaxing, it was after he had finished his meal and most of his book that he realised Mrs. George had not brought in the tea pot only a single cup. In need of a refresher Mycroft sat his book aside and stood, stretching. Knowing he would be headed for the kitchen anyway he grabbed his breakfast tray instead of waiting for Mrs. George to come and collect it. Mycroft could never understand those who refused to do work or created a mess simply because it was someone else’s job to clean up. Entering the now organised and bag free kitchen he sat the tray next to the sink and checked the tea pot. Cold. Strange, he hadn’t thought he had been reading that long. A further inspection showed that the pot was not only cold, but empty. Meaning Mrs. George had brewed a single cup rather than a pot. Mycroft sighed, filled the kettle and flipped the switch on to begin boiling. Instead of standing around waiting for it, Mycroft decided to listen to the small nagging voice in his head that something was off about Mrs. George.

An inspection of the pantry showed that Mrs. George was no longer in the general area. At this point, Mycroft had two choices, ignore Mrs. George’s behaviour and return to his book or wander around the house and eventually ask his housekeeper about, what would essentially be, her feelings. Mycroft curled his lips in disgust at the mere thought of the second option. However, he decided he simply could not let this go. _Sentiment._ His mind was on a vicious track today apparently. This was not sentiment, Mycroft could not afford anymore leaks, subpar performances, or blatant disregard for his orders.

Mrs. George abides by her own strict schedule for cleaning, of her own design, despite what those close to him would say. Technically Mrs. George has two schedules, one for days Mycroft was away and one for the rare days he was in. These self enforced schedules were made to ease Mycroft’s anxiety about someone else in his home, and to make it easier to spot discrepancies. A creature of habit is easier to watch, and trust, as any deviation would be glaringly obvious. _You think that by surrounding yourself with sheep that that makes you a wolf. Pathetic. When in reality, you crave the safety of the flock. You are...No!_ Mycroft shook his head, he is tired and will be going back to bed after he deals with Mrs. George. He walks briskly and intently towards the main staircase, turns left and heads down the side staircase to the basement. Mrs. George’s schedule clearly goes from kitchen duties to laundry, meaning she will need the washer. Mycroft bypasses two storage rooms and heads for the end of the hall, the room before the film room. _I’m back. A sing song voice from Sherlock’s break in taunts. No, we’re not doing this again, he simply needs more rest. Nothing is wrong and he’s allowing himself to be spooked by nothing._ Mycroft sneers and enters the laundry room. Mrs. George is nowhere to be seen.

“Impossible,” Mycroft says aloud in an exasperated tone. “It’s sheet,” he pauses and hangs his head in shame having realised his mistake “day.” Mycroft exits and turns towards the stairs, pauses and heads for the film room. Inside, everything is in its place, the ashtray long since emptied. Having assured himself that this room is still just a room, and not a nightmare death trap, he turns to leave. In the corner, along the rows of film tins, one sits out of its place. Weary, Mycroft crosses the room to it. On the front a green Post-It with the message of “Sorry” written hastily in Dr. Watson’s hand is scrawled. Opening the tin Mycroft finds a copy of “Lady Be Bad” and another green Post-It in Sherlock’s hand, this time saying “John said to fix it”. He smiled, closed the tin, and went up the stairs. Halfway up the stairs leading to the 4th floor Mycroft runs into Mrs. George carrying a sheet laden basket, and a dry-cleaning bag with Mycroft’s clothes.

“Ah, Mrs. George allow me,” Mycroft says as he takes the basket. Mrs. George looks mildly surprised before schooling her expression.

“There’s no need for that.” However, they keep walking down the stairs, with their respective items.

They arrive in silence and Mrs. George begins sorting the bedding into the proper piles.

“Mr. Holmes, was there something you needed, or do you believe I am suddenly incapable?” Mrs. George’s remark was flat, lacking all her usual spark and jest. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy. Her hair was flat, and the roots were beginning to get a slight grease sheen. It would seem that, while in his own emotional turmoil, Mycroft had missed Mrs. George’s. There could only be one thing causing her such pain.

“I need you to inform me as to what you think you are doing here when you are so clearly needed elsewhere,” he said softly and without rebuke.

“How- no not how, it doesn’t matter how. What matters is that I’ve a job to do not to mention lacking the funds. My place is here, Mr. Holmes, and I will continue to serve you as I always have,” she said with all the British stiff upper lip she could manage. Admirable as it was, Mycroft would not be swayed. He wasn’t sure if it was the emotional wreckage of the past few weeks or the whispers of a long-ago conversation in 221B. _Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes._

“You’re not my servant Mrs. George, you’re my employee. An exemplary one that works year-round, often forgoing your mandated holiday time and pay. Mrs. George you have a backlog of time and pay spanning 3 years, I’ve overlooked it for too long,” Mycroft said in his work voice.

Tears brimmed in Mrs. George’s eyes. “What are you saying Mr. Holmes?”

“You are to either take the next month off and visit your brother-in-law, or you’re fired.”

Mrs. George’s eyes lost the worried mist they had been holding, and instead turned to steal. “Time off won’t fix everything Mr. Holmes. My nephew is ill and those damn Australian doctors don’t know their way out of a brown paper bag, let alone whatever ails Bruce. And again, holiday time won’t get me there.” By now Mrs. George was red in the face, very near shouting, and was barely a card’s length from him.

“I’ll forgive your invasion of personal space and emotional outburst as you are under quite a lot of emotional strain. In fact, I’ll even forgive your lack of memory of my previous statement of your backlog of holiday time _and_ pay.” Mrs. George stepped back startled, blinking rapidly.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed madam. Pack your things, call Charles and inform him you will be arriving post haste. I’ll arrange for you to take my jet, and for Dr. Borden to accompany you.”

“But Dr. Borden is your- “

“His services will not be required in the next month I assure you. Your next argument of this _order_ being too kind is preposterous. Go prepare yourself, your flight leaves in two hours.” With that Mycroft turned on his heel and headed upstairs. Mrs. George would be dumbstruck for possibly three more seconds before she springs into action. The first to be starting the wash, something she will remind him to finish, and the second will be to leave and follow his orders. Which means he has just enough time to return to his book and look bored before she wanders in.

Mycroft is a page and a half into the next chapter when, as predicted, Mrs. George wanders in.

“I’ve started the wash Mr. Holmes. And I just wanted to thank you for being so kind in my hour of need.”

Mycroft internally smirked but kept his face bored and his tone nonchalant. “No thanks are needed; your holiday backlog is a blight on my financial records. Your pay will be in your account within the hour. I will be seeing you at 8 am sharp exactly one month from now. Dismissed.”

“You sir, are secretly a softy,” she teased “the so-called _hurricane of bags_ is gone, replaced by a fully stocked pantry.” Mrs. George turned and was halfway down the hall before she called out. “Oh! I’ve nicked your takeaway menus so you’re not tempted to eat rubbish all month. Take care!”

“What,” shouted Mycroft as he ran to the entryway, only to see Mrs. George climb into HIS car, that HE, arranged for her. He scowled as the car moved away from the curb. Chalking it up as a lost cause he shut the door and walked back to the study. _The nerve of that woman, so what if he ate takeaway a bit often, he works-._ He stopped midstride, and thought, as he entered the study. _Worked. He had the next three weeks off. Perhaps she’s right, he shouldn’t eat crap takeaway for a whole month. He had time to prepare a real meal, better, real desserts. Hmmm and Dr. Watson had mentioned meal prepping to Mrs. Hudson last week as a way to save time. What with the remodelling of 221B and a nearly one year old running around. Perhaps he could use it to maintain his diet, that’s a thing now isn’t it. Not just something sad lonely men with elderly female neighbours who bring them week long meals have. Right? Right._

However, Mycroft could feel his rough night, nay his rough fortnight, creeping back up on him in the form of fatigue, and a stinging from the welt on his bicep. He had told himself that he would go back to bed after he had dealt with Mrs. George, so that’s what he intended to do. He walked all the way up to his room on the third floor. Entering his room, he is glad to see that Mrs. George was able to change his bedding, again, before starting the wash. Mycroft groaned. He had forgotten the wash, it would still be in the machine for another twenty minutes. He could either stay up and transfer the items to the dryer or he could set an alarm and have a short nap, one he could resume after the washing had be attended to. He sighed. It would be more time efficient to wait it out than it would be to power nap. Plus, he was afraid he would simply sleep through the alarm and Mycroft did not want mildew smelling sheets. His lip curled at the mere thought of it.

Accepting his fate Mycroft turned down the hall and headed for the stairs. When he was about to descend the basement stairs, just at the end of the first floor hallway, Mycroft saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Whipping around he surveyed the hall, he could see nothing but the portraits of his ancestors. Though it’s possible the intruder could be lurking just out of view on the main staircase. Mycroft began to slowly edge his way down the hall when he stopped and scowled at himself. _There is no one but me here. I’m jumpy for no reason. My security system was upgraded the morning after Sherlock broke in so it’s unlikely he’s fiddled with it again, especially after John told him the prank was a one time thing. I’m tired, I’m going to throw my sheets in the dryer, and then I’m going to bed. Wrinkled sheets be damned._ Mycroft, against all his training and general paranoia, turned his back on whatever he might have seen and continued to the basement.

Reaching the laundry room Mycroft pulled out the foldable chair Mrs. George kept in the room so that she could sit while she ironed. It was stiff and wooden and he hated it, but it was better than sitting on the floor. Casual clothes or not, he refused to lower himself to such a station. He watched the washer spin around until the motion brought him a headache. He needs to sleep, and possibly drink more tea as he’d been getting them for weeks now. _The stress of it all must truly be getting to him, Alicia was right, he needs this time off. He wouldn’t be at his best and Lord knows now is not the time to be slipping. When will this blasted machine be done? He felt like he’d been down here for hours already. He’d never been more grateful for buying his own dryer, he’s never had the patience of letting his belongings air dry on a rack, as most of Britain does. Mrs. George can use the rack all she likes, he will not, not today at least._ Finally, the washer buzzed and Mycroft was able to remove each item, give it shake, and place it in the dryer.

One sheet setting later and he had an hour until they would be dry. An hour which Mycroft would be ignoring, as it was now 8:00 am and he planned to sleep until at least noon. Which is an abhorrent situation under normal circumstances but a welcome one under this one. Rather than going straight back to his room, Mycroft opted to stop by the kitchen and make a quick cuppa, the possible dehydration should be dealt with.

Passing by the portraits Mycroft felt uneasy, which he hated. He had no reason to worry, he was being ridiculous. Entering the kitchen Mycroft heads for the counter which contains the electric kettle, he has no desire to go the long route of boiling the water. Reaching for the kettle Mycroft’s hand stops and hovers just before he grasps the handle. The kettle has precipitation inside, and there is roughly a cup’s worth of water still inside. _Odd. Mrs. George only made one cup earlier, and she never adds more water than needed. The precipitation suggests that it was used recently, within the last half hour. Someone is in the house._

“What’s up Bro,” comes a voice behind him and from within the pantry. Without thinking Mycroft grabs the kettle from its stand, whirls around, and launches it at the pantry entry. Sherlock, who had been sipping a cup of tea dodges slightly, causing his cup to slosh over onto the floor.

“What the hell Mycroft! No need to be so jumpy. I’m here to update you on Eurus.” Sherlock sat his cup on the counter, then leaned down and picked up the kettle, carrying it back to its stand.

“Couldn’t you have called first? A simple text would have sufficed,” Mycroft seethed.

“Actually no. Lady Smallwood stopped me on the helipad and informed me of your removal from work and surveillance duties.”

“Come to gloat?” Mycroft picked up the kettle, elbowed past Sherlock, and began to fill it from the tap.

“Not at all. I need your help with a case.”

“Me,” Mycroft asked incredulously, “I despise legwork. And what of Dr. Watson?” Mycroft placed the kettle on its stand and flipped the switch.

“He and Watson have a Daddy and me recital dance art activity thing.” Sherlock said waving his fingers and hands about flippantly.

“You have no idea what the actual activity is do you,” Mycroft smirked.

“Boring!” Sherlock grabbed his cup, finished it in one go, and placed it in the sink. He turned on the tap and began washing it.

“How is Eurus? Any improvement? And what are the details of this case, you must need help if your coming to me.”

“She’s still not speaking, but I didn’t expect her to. And she did duet, but thus far it’s still works composed by others. I wish to communicate with her through the music but for now I’ll have to be content with simply playing with her.” Sherlock frowned, clearly torn with the progress he’s making in keeping his promise.

“Don’t push, she’ll close you off and then she’ll be left alone again,” Mycroft said as he poured the ready kettle water into his tea leaves.

“Speaking from experience brother dearest?”

Mycroft sat the kettle back with a little more force than necessary, frustrated. “Of course I am! Where else would I be speaking from? She was my secret to bear for over twenty years Sherlock!”

Sherlock was silent. Mycroft stared at the steeping tea, waiting for it to be ready. _Two minutes of awkward silence. Fantastic. It’s not like Sherlock to keep his mouth shut._

“What is this case?” Mycroft had evened his breathing and was calmly adding honey to his tea. Taking a sip, he grimaced, it was bitter, he’d forgotten to let it cool a moment before adding the water. He dumped it down the sink.

“Not to your liking? Green was never your favourite.” Sherlock paused scrunching his face at the conversation. So normal for the average sibling but, awkward for them. “Any who,” Sherlock says quickly to dispelled the mood, “Do you recall an old school mate of mine Harold Stackhurst?”

“The boy with the hideous round glasses that you shared a library corner table with during half terms in fourth and fifth year,” Mycroft asked incredulously.

“Yes, the very one. He’s headmaster at The Gables now.” Sherlock gave a grin that bared his teeth making his face look a bit...insane.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I take it he’s dead?”

“No, but his science professor is,” Sherlock practically giggled.

“And what strange circumstances have caught your interest? A shared table over fifteen years ago, wouldn’t have been enough reason to owe a favour from your bleeding heart,” Mycroft quipped.

“Oh ha ha, I have feelings and you don’t like it.” Sherlock made a face, taunting Mycroft.

“Admitting are we, that I’m the smart one.”

“Hush. No, the good professor was whipped to death.”

“Well then the local authori-”

“Silently, on the beach, with only his footprints in the sand, and roughly twenty people within sixteen meters who didn’t see an assailant.”

Mycroft tried to keep his face blank and uninterested.

“Great! I’ll see you at Victoria for the 9 a.m. train tomorrow. Toodles!” Sherlock ran out of the kitchen at top speed, Mycroft chased after him after Sherlock rounded the doorway.

“I didn’t say I would-” He was gone, and without Mycroft ever hearing the front door close. _Strange._ Mycroft turned and went back into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and headed for his bedroom. However, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“You better have left Sherlock! If I find you hiding in my house again I’ll have my security detail taze you,” Mycroft shouted to the empty house. Receiving no reply, nor hearing the opening of any doors Mycroft climbed the stairs.

Reaching his room Mycroft sat the glass of water on its designated coaster on his nightstand. He then proceeded to his closet, where he changed into his nightwear, placing his day clothes folded on an empty shelf. He returned to his bed where he drank half of the water, and set an alarm for noon. When he was lying comfortably, Mycroft closed his eyes and went to sleep.


	5. Practice Your Scales and Arpeggios

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reminisces.

BEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEP! Mycroft groaned and arched his back. He rolled over and silenced his alarm, he felt groggy and his mouth was dry. Mycroft debated getting up at all, his bed was comfortable, warm, and he slept without nightmares for the first time in weeks. Truly a miracle. He didn’t really have to meal prep now, as he didn’t know how long he would be mucking about with Sherlock. Knowing Sherlock it could be anywhere between the train ride there and the entirety of his....vacation. Meal prepping only to end up not eating the food, and thus wasting it, would be ridiculous. He could always order from his favourite Thai place, Mrs. George stealing his menus means nothing when you have a brain like his. He pondered that idea for a bit, but ultimately it would be better for him to at least try and eat at home. Mycroft didn’t want to cook something that would leave behind a lot of washing up, which eliminated most of the meals he really enjoyed. He could bake a salmon fillet and some vegetables but, he didn’t ask for any particular type of fish for the month so the freezer might not hold what he desires.

Mycroft suddenly recalled something and sat bolt up. The kitchen freezer may not have what he wants but, the spare freezer in the storage room in the basement definitely does. Mycroft got out of bed and headed for the basement, not bothering to change from his pyjamas as getting the fish smell out of his sweater would be undesirable. Once on the basement floor Mycroft made an immediate left into the first storage room. The room had been essentially left alone since Mycroft had purchased to building twenty years ago. In fact, most of the basement, apart from his film and laundry rooms, had been left as they were. This room had a concrete floor, floral wallpaper that had yellowed and was peeling, and several boxes containing an old degreasing soap left over from the previous owner’s failed dry cleaning business. After passing it’s mould and mildew inspection the only thing Mycroft had done to the room was add a large upright freezer, to store fancier meats for when he was required to play host. The bottom shelf of the freezer also held two biohazard boxes for Sherlock’s experiments, the next room over had been emptied and was designated as one of his bolt hole labs, rarely used as Sherlock loathed needing his assistance.

Mycroft walked to the freezer, opened it and found the sockeye salmon that had been gifted to him from one of his associates after the successful completion of a case. Having his main in hand, Mycroft headed back upstairs and into the kitchen. Having not pulled the fish from the freezer the night before, he now had to resort to filling the sink with cold water and placing the fish in to slowly thaw. Mycroft may be hungry but he wasn’t a monster who placed fish of all things in the microwave to defrost, it simply wasn’t done. Mycroft then set the oven to 200°C to preheat. Knowing he had twenty to forty minutes before the salmon was appropriately thawed Mycroft set about planning the proper sides and accompanying sauce.

As the salmon was his main, the sauce he chose would decide the remaining bits of the entrée. Mycroft had three sauces he enjoyed on salmon, chili lime,  sweet onion teriyaki, and honey garlic butter. Chili lime would be the healthier option but, would give him heart burn or possibly indigestion with how he’s been feeling lately. The teriyaki is a favourite but too much sauce would over power the fish. The honey garlic butter is a bit fattening but easy to make. Weighing his options, ultimately the honey garlic butter is the best option.

To counteract the fats of the butter Mycroft would need to choose sides that were either high in fibre, had so-called negative calories, or both. He opted for the calorie route. Searching the fridge, Mycroft removed butter, cherry tomatoes, asparagus, kale and a bottle of lemon juice. These ingredients were placed to the left of the range, next to the cutting board. In the cabinet above them Mycroft removed olive oil, garlic powder, honey, and thyme. In the cabinet next to that one, he removed a small bowel. Then walking over to the utensils drawer Mycroft removed a butter knife, returning to the counter Mycroft cut roughly 3.5 tablespoons from the bar. Mycroft then dropped the sectioned of butter into the bowel. He slightly melted the butter in the microwave. Once soft but not melted he removed it from the microwave. He then added roughly 6 grams of garlic powder to the butter. Normally Mycroft preferred fresh garlic but he simply didn’t have the patience to prepare it. After the garlic was mixed in the butter he added 20 millimetres of honey and stirred. Once the sauce was completely mixed he sat it off to the side. Mycroft changed the sink water and checked the fish, it was still a bit firm and would need at least another ten minutes.

Now that the sauce was ready Mycroft needed to wash and prepare his vegetables. He started with the tomatoes, after a quick wash in the other side of the sink, he placed 8 tomatoes on the cutting board and cut them in half. Normally he would leave them whole, however, as he plans on using less butter sauce he wants the juices of the tomato to add to the rest of the meal. Next he takes a leaf of pre-cut aluminium from the box mounted next to the roll of kitchen towels. He turns up every side to make a shallow dish. In this he sprinkles a bit of olive oil, only about five drops. Then, using his previously used butter knife he carefully smears the oil around the bottom. He then washes the asparagus, rolls it in the tomato juice left on the cutting board and then places it in the aluminium boat. Mycroft then takes a small bit of his butter sauce, no more than 5 millimetres,  and drizzles it over the asparagus.

Next, Mycroft washes the kale and de-stems it. He then places it on the cutting board, without wiping away the remaining juices, and chops it into chunks about the size of 20p. He then places the kale on the asparagus bed. He then checks the salmon, and it is thankfully thawed. Mycroft drains the sink and opens the package. He carefully removes the fillet and places it skin side down in the centre of the vegetable bed, he then takes his remaining butter sauce and drizzles it over the contents of the aluminium boat. Once drizzled, Mycroft tosses in the tomatoes, sprinkles an bit of thyme over the lot, grabs another sheaf of aluminium and seals the boat. He then carefully places the package in the centre of the middle shelf in the oven. He sets the timer for 15 minutes and turns the kettle on to have a cuppa while he waits.

Once he has made a pot and successfully poured himself a cup, Mycroft exits the kitchen and heads across the hall to his office. He could go to the dinning room or even to the sitting room he had used earlier that day. However, the office is strictly for work, and he needs that sort of head space at the moment. The office looked mildly other worldy in comparison with the rest of Mycroft’s home. While the rest of his home was done up in dark imposing woods, his office comprised of light gum woods, and many green hanging plants adorned the ceilings before the windows. The plants mostly consisted of dracaena and peace lilies as the windows faced the alley between his home and the neighbour’s. He didn’t like the thought of having his office on the ground floor at first, but once he had every bit of security device available to him placed around its perimeter, he didn’t mind. Mycroft found the light that did make it into the office comforting. It was usually a dull cosy colour, that added a softness to the atmosphere. Truly is was vastly different to, not only his home, but the stiff office at MI6 and his stately rooms at the Diogenes. These rooms were a breath of fresh air, and the absolutely best place for one to peruse their mind palace.

Mycroft, clad in pyjamas, rounds his desk and sits in his high backed chair. He loved his chair, it had been a gift from Sherlock, and it was surprisingly given in honest thanks. He had technically asked for it, but this was so much more than he had hoped for. He takes a sip of his tea, and instead of planning his actions for tomorrow and combing through the tidbits Sherlock gave him as he intended, he allows himself to remember. It had been one of Sherlock’s first cases with Detective Inspector Lestrade, then a Sergeant. Lestrade had still been a bit wary of Sherlock, but as the younger Holmes brother was staying sober he was allowed access to old dusty cold cases. This particular case had been cold since 1970, a body of a woman found outside a warehouse at the Middlesbrough docks. The woman had been bound and the cause of death appeared to be the multitude of stab wounds decorating her torso and abdomen. The area she was found wasn’t as busy as other parts of the dock, and she was hidden beneath a pile of pallets, she wasn’t discovered for some months. The discovery only happened because a couple of local lads had been mucking about and knocked the pile over...even a male teenager’s ego couldn’t stop them from screaming at the sight of a rotting corpse. The woman was unidentifiable after months left exposed, though the officers were able to take a few prints. She was buried in a paupers plot, merely marked by a number.

It wasn’t until technology caught up that there was any change in the case at all. The unknown women’s fingerprints, once uploaded to the database, pinged up several arrest logs in the  Middlesbrough police department, only the logs  involved different names. One log even included a photo of a man, despite the name being a woman’s name, and now of course the prints matching up. Honestly, the fingerprints database only gave police more questions. Sherlock didn’t get the case until six months after the database pings, and only because Lestrade had a buddy that owed him a favour, so the file was transferred to London and to Sherlock.

Sherlock by this point was growing bored of cold cases, he solved them all quickly, and he expected this one to be no different. Oh, but different it was. The mutilated body wasn’t anything special, especially considering the locale in which it was found. The fingerprints and names though, they were a true puzzle for Sherlock. They were such a puzzle that Sherlock, for the first time since coming off the drugs and becoming a ‘consulting detective’ decided to seek out Mycroft’s help.

_British summer was a tricky thing, evasive really. The summer of 2005 though was shaping up to be an especially wet one. London, and most of the country, was experiencing waves of thunderstorms and downpours. Though hopes were always miraculously restored on that seemingly one day a month when they were gifted the sun. That particular gift was today, and he was stuck in doors listening to an MP blather on about a slight he received while visiting a neighbouring county. At long last the man shut up and those present were able to close the meeting. He stuck around long enough to do the inane, but necessary, idle chat and a few farewell conversations. Once his quota was met he all but high-tailed it from the room and to the safety of the car. Said car took him to the Diogenes, where he planned to enter his rooms, pour a neat scotch, and sit in front of his window reading a Dickens novel. That lovely thought was thrown straight in the bin when, upon entering his rooms, he found his little brother grinning up at him from **behind** his desk. He suppressed the urge to groan, but didn’t manage to keep the lip curling snarl from his face._

_“To what do I owe the pleasure brother dear?” He looked over his little brother quickly. Sober, clean, eating but hasn’t eaten that day, and eyes bright like a bloodhound on a scent. Truly, he’s sincere about quitting the drugs this time._

_“I need access to the 1939 census. The public records lack the information I need” Sherlock said flippantly._

_“Yes of course I’ll give you access to the most important civilian document records we have. The documents that ended a three decades census dry spell. The very documents that are the foundation of Britain’s evacuation plans, and the founding of the NHS. By all means of course you can have access.” Mycroft stalked around the desk and scowled down at his little brother._

_Sherlock, for his part, looked up innocently at his brother. “Something the matter” he asked with wide falsely naive eyes._

_Mycroft bent at the waist and got in his brother’s face. “You’re in my chair.” Sherlock continued the innocent act. “Move” Mycroft  hissed in response._

_“Make me” Sherlock taunted, smirking. This, of course, was the incorrect thing to say. For you see all siblings immediately revert to childhood pettiness, no matter their age, when challenged by each other. Mycroft was no exception._

_Mycroft tackled Sherlock, sending the chair, and themselves toppling. Sherlock’s attempt to impede his fall, resulted in several trinkets being scraped off the desk with his forearm. Mycroft attempted to keep the arc of their fall centred and brought his knees forward to rest on Sherlock’s stomach, while he continued to throw his full weight into the tackle.  The opposing forces, and the combined weight of two adult men, caused the chair to strike the right corner where the back and seat met. They landed with a loud crack, and several trinkets and papers raining down around them. Three glass paperweights shattered, two fountain pens exploded their contents on the carpet, and the note spear lodged itself in the chair, left and up a bit of Sherlock’s right shoulder._

_The force of their landing knocked the wind out of Sherlock, but he still managed to shove Mycroft off of him and begin crawling away. Sherlock’s push forced Mycroft to roll to his left, crushing the arm of his chair and furthering the split at the seam of the parts, thus completely severing the chair in half. Sherlock was nearly out of range by the time Mycroft completed his roll. However, Sherlock’s left foot was close enough for Mycroft to lunge at and snatch. This caused Sherlock to fall on his face as one of his anchor points was pulled out of under him as he was crawling. Sherlock retaliated by attempting to kick Mycroft in the face, but managing to free the note spear instead. Said office supply flipped and it’s arc would have stabbed Mycroft in the face, had he not let go of Sherlock’s foot and flung himself backwards. Sherlock used this to his advantage and hauled himself to his feet._

_“Sherlock what the fuck” Mycroft exclaimed as he too rose to his feet from his sitting position. Sherlock froze, now a Holmes brother on each side of the desk, this time the length side. The brothers took the moment to stare each other down. Sherlock darted for the door, but Mycroft cut him off, managing for once to be quicker._

_“Let me out” Sherlock demanded even as he flicked his eyes around the room for a second exit._

_“No,” Mycroft replied in a petulant incredulous tone, “What in the name of all that is Holy is your problem?”_

_“My problem? **You** tackled **me**!”_

_“Well you-” Mycroft cut himself off and pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to calm down, “just sit down” he sighed. He was beginning to get a headache and he wanted this issue solved, his office cleaned up, and to go home. The room had lost its solitude appeal, and instead thought a nice long bath would be better. The clouds seemed to be returning anyway, there would be no sun to enjoy soon._

_“Where? The desk chair is broken and your guest chairs are harder than pavement” he sassed._

_“Sit” Mycroft hissed. Sherlock sat where he had stood. Mycroft shrugged he shoulders and sat down on the floor as well, his suit was wrinkled already anyway._

_“I will give you access to your needed files, not the whole document, on two conditions.”_

_Sherlock frowned but made no rebuttal._

_“The first is that I must be with you at all times once you have the document,” Mycroft began. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but Mycroft held up his hand to silence him, “believe me brother dear it is not something I will enjoy. Protocol requires I be with you, unfortunately my attachment to you will not end once you’ve viewed the document, I will have to stay with you over the course of your case to insure you are not misusing or spreading the information where it is not meant to be.”_

_“That’s not fair,” Sherlock pouted, “I just need it to track down a Welsh address. Why on earth should I bring you along afterwards.”_

_“Protocol brother mine. Just remember that **I** will be subjugated to **legwork**.”_

_“Fine,” he agreed, “Your second condition?”_

_“Replace my chair!”_

_“You-” Sherlock began but, he was silenced by a withering glare from Mycroft. Clearly having access to the information he needed for the case was more important. However, both brothers knew his cooperation would not last forever, and that once the case was over Sherlock would be back to his normal petulant and antagonising self._

_Mycroft stood up, and Sherlock followed suit. “I’ll have the document later this evening, 8’oclock don’t be late” he stepped to the side and allowed Sherlock to open the door and exit. They exchanged harsh glances as he left. Mycroft closed the door behind him and sighed._

_Facing his rooms he winced, it was a mess. He walked over to the desk and gathered up the scattered paper and pens. He locked the papers in the safe hidden behind a panel located in the block where the chair was meant to go. He then grabbed the note spear and tossed it in the bin, he no longer desired having a spike anywhere near his person. He summoned some men and set them to removing the remains of the chair, and cleaning the ink stains from the carpet. Mycroft took his leave and went home, making a call in the car for the documents to be delivered._

_Once home he headed to his bedroom and that bath he desired. He allowed himself a long languid soak. He even lit a few candles that smelled of lavender, and turned off the bathroom light. He may not have been able to partake in any part of the sun rays today, and he may have destroyed in desk chair in a childish moment, but a good long soak made everything better. The dancing shadows caused by the flickering flames, and the relaxing scent of the candles allowed Mycroft to let the day’s tensions to melt away. He should have added his unscented bubble bath mix, but it was too late now, and it didn’t really matter anyway. He was blissfully comfortable. He stayed put until the water began to cool and his fingers began to prune. He pulled the plug with his toes and carefully stood to exit the tub. He had laid out soft royal purple pyjamas, he didn’t care if Sherlock saw him in them, they had grown up together and he was no more vulnerable to his mockery now than he was then. Well, since he had lost all that weight anyway. The point was that there was nothing Sherlock could throw at him , when it was just them, that would wound him in anyway. Anthea, his new PA, would be delivering the documents and she wouldn’t dare say a word about his state of dress. Nor would she tell anyone else, the young woman had the makings of a superb PA, and possible confidant, if she continued as she was._

_After Mycroft was dressed he made his way down to the kitchen and made himself a builders cuppa. He then made his way across the hall to his office, he’d had it renovated and filled with a lighter wood than the rest of the house, and he had recently decided to start a few hanging plants. The peace lilies were doing quite well, and if they continued to do so he may add another kind, so that there could be a bit of variety. The white petals of the flowers looked nearly purple in the afternoon light reflected from the neighbour’s windows. The clouds hadn’t completely blocked the earlier sun’s rays, but they did dim the sky and give a de-saturated tone to the beginnings of the sunset. He walked to one of the deep armchairs located near the windows. He didn’t actually have a desk in his office, as it was a room mainly for thinking. Though, given today’s events he might just move the desk from the Diogenes to here. He was using his private rooms more and more as a meeting place, a place to acquire favours on his  turf, more and more. Keeping the desk between himself and his associates created a visible barrier, and that made garnering favours harder. And Sherlock was right, the guest chairs he had were harder than pavement. If he were being honest, the chairs and rooms weren’t even his, they had been Uncle Rudi’s, and it was well past time he made his own mark upon them. He didn’t do business like his uncle, so why should he decorate like his uncle? He finally had proper security and entertainment for Eurus, his parents were traveling the continent in a square dancing circuit, and Sherlock was sober and had something to occupy his mind. It was time to move forward, he could air out the ghost of his uncle and make his own leaps in the world of shadow politics._

_Mycroft had no more than taken a sip of his tea when the doorbell rang, signalling Anthea’s arrival. He sat his cup down on the coffee table and went to answer the door. Anthea stood on his doorstep, briefcase in hand, and dressed for a night out. Mycroft made no comment on her appearance but, he did hope for two things. That Anthea learn she couldn’t always make plans and follow through with them, and that she have more time to live her life than he ever did._

_“Good evening sir” she nodded in greeting as she handed over the briefcase._

_“Anthea,” he nodded back, “cuppa?”_

_“No, thank you sir. Will there be anything else?” She waited patiently on the doorstep, and if Mycroft were a paranoid man he would worry about what the neighbours would think of such an apparently shady meeting. He however, was not, and did not._

_“No, that will be all. I trust I do not have to remind you of your duties starting at 8 a.m. tomorrow” he asked with a raised brow. Anthea merely raised her eyebrow in return, her ability to be both familiar and professional with him was why he liked her. He had high hopes for her career. “Of course, have a lovely evening my dear.” She nodded her thanks, and turned to leave, Mycroft shut the door._

_He returned to his office and narrowed the document down to the Welsh portion and placed it on the coffee table. Mycroft then sealed the remaining portion back into the suitcase, then placed the suitcase in yet another false panel safe that was located on the right wall, and awaited his brother’s arrival. Sherlock had come far in the last few months and he was honestly proud of him. Mycroft didn’t exactly agree with Sherlock’s self invented career but, as long as he was sober and staying out of jail, he didn’t rightly care at the moment. Perhaps one day he could entice his little brother into a liaison with MI6, as a way of bringing him into the tent, but that was a decade off at best._

_“You’ve got plants in here. With flowers” Sherlock stated with a sneer._

_Mycroft sighed. Perhaps his existence outside the tent wasn’t so bad after all. “Yes thank you, they are lovely. Yes they are doing well, I think I might add a variety soon if they keep at it. Have a seat brother dear. Shall I put the kettle on? Biscuits?” Mycroft’s hospitality was sarcastic and cutting, though he did gesture to the chair opposite when offering a seat._

_“Yes thank you, though I don’t suggest you partake in the biscuits, brother mine. How is the diet anyway?” Sherlock smirked and feigned interest._

_“Fine, thank you.” Mycroft left for the kitchen without making eye contact with his brother and taking his own teacup with him. Once in the kitchen he set the kettle on and perused the cabinets for the chocolate biscuits he keeps for when Sherlock visits. Mycroft preferred the jam and cream ones but still kept Sherlock’s favourites in the back of the cabinets. Mycroft bought the snacks himself, his housekeeper was getting on in years and he had taken to acquiring specialty items on his own time. He imagined Mrs. Carter would be retiring within the decade, she had certainly earned her rest._

_The kettle clicked off and Mycroft gathered a tray with tea fixings and placed a plate of biscuits along with it. He poured the hot water into the teapot and picked up his nearly empty teacup. Mycroft finished his previous cup and sat it in the sink. He picked up the tray and carried it into his office where he found Sherlock reading over two sheets of the census._

_Mycroft noticed the rest of the document in piles on Sherlock’s side of the table. “I do hope you’ve kept them in order, I’d hate to waste time reorganising them.” Mycroft sat the tray down in the middle of the table._

_“You’ll be looking over them anyway. But yes, they’re in order.” Sherlock didn’t even bother to look away from the papers as he answered Mycroft. “Two sugars please, and a dash of cream.”_

_“You’ve had your tea the same way since we were children, I know how to make it.” Mycroft prepared both cups and left them to steep. He picked up the biscuit plate and shoved it over the papers and in Sherlock’s view._

_“I’m reading” he said as he shoved the plate away._

_“You already know what you need to know. Set the papers down, eat a biscuit, and tell me everything.”_

_Sherlock paused a moment to consider. He rolled his eyes and put the papers down. He grabbed a biscuit. “After I left your rooms I returned to the yard to review the case file.”_

_“Still not allowing you to take them home then” Mycroft inquired._

_Sherlock scowled. “I’m told my flat isn’t secure enough.”_

_“I could-”_

_“No,” Sherlock cut him off and gave him a look of stern inflexibility, “anyway, the case focuses on the identity of a body found on a warehouse lot in the 1970s in Middlesbrough. It was mostly preserved when a few local boys found it several months after the murder. The body was determined to be female, and her prints were taken using a new method. The officers were hopeful that she would be identified quickly, and her murderer jailed. That didn’t happen, a breakthrough happened earlier this year when her prints were added to an electronic database. They pinged three different arrest files.”_

_“I don’t see how this would require your help.”_

_The files all had different names, one file even included a photo of what appeared to be a man, and another used ‘he’ instead of ‘she’, even though the name given was female.”_

_“Oh now it seems interesting. Continue.” Mycroft said as he leaned slightly forward._

_“In the case file I found an overlooked ledger had been placed in the file a few months ago. Most likely by a new clerk as no one seems to know it had been put in the file in the first place.” Sherlock dunked his biscuit into his tea and continued. “The ledger was for the final arrest record, and it contained not only one of the alias’ for the victim but two witnesses names.”_

_“And they led you, where exactly” Mycroft inquired as he swiped a biscuit as well._

_Sherlock pulled the biscuit plate closer to him, like a petulant child, unwilling to share. “One witness died in a stabbing two years after the murder. The second still lives and is conveniently located in Islington.” Mycroft continued to sip his tea, waiting for his brother to continue. “The witness’ name is Charles. I showed him the photo from the first arrest file.”_

_Mycroft merely lazily raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sherlock to get on with it._

_“He remembered her, fondly. He was about 17 when they met, and he initially only knew her through his neighbour Maisie Dixon.” Here, Sherlock’s eyes took on an excited glint._

_“Go on, share your wild and primitive glee with me,” Mycroft said dryly with a mocking face._

_Sherlock pouted. “Honestly what’s the point of sharing my genius with you if you aren’t enraptured by it.”_

_Mycroft opened his mouth to reply._

_“No no, I know. You’re the smart one,” he mocked. “anyway, Maisie Dixon is a name on the second arrest report. Now according to Charles the person in the photograph was known only to him as initials S.C. He never knew what they stood for and never asked, as a young man raised in a council housing unit he knew better than to ask questions when answers weren’t forthcoming.”_

_“So yet another alias to go with the three from the reports.”_

_“Not quite, the last arresting officer must have been particularly stupid, as he took the initials ‘S.C’ to mean ‘Essy’ the full of it being Catlyn Essy Moore.”_

_“A missing piece to a puzzle without edges or reference photo of the polar bear in snow. Where is this going and what does it have to do with the census?”_

_“Be patient and let me tell the story” Sherlock snipped._

_Mycroft made a lazy continue gesture._

_“Charles states that S.C dressed and conducted herself as a man, though whether that be due to personal preference or her chosen occupation as aspiring drug lord, he did not know. She was described as fashionable and kind. She always asked how he was and if he needed anything. Apparently they had once been intimate in the year they had known each other.”_

_“How exactly was that relevant to your questioning, and why did you feel the need to inform me of it?”_

_“You’re terribly impatient, do you skip to the last page of a book just to see how it ends? This factoid wasn’t relevant to my questioning per se, until he mentioned that Ms. Dixon was always S.C’s number one.”_

_“A bisexual woman who conducted her life with a male appearance, dangerous for the time period. Dangerous now, even. So thus far we have three suspects: neighbouring drug dealers or kingpins, the local bobbies, or someone who simply disapproved of her orientations.” Mycroft stated, once more interested in Sherlock’s findings._

_“Yes. Given the area of the events I’d say the last isn’t really plausible, Middlesbrough has always been a welcoming place of misfits and the seedy, mashing them together rarely resulted in tragedy. The middle option is possible, though the law never specified women, and according to Charles A.C was a very cunning and slick person. She kept her friend groups separate, didn’t involve the innocent in overly shady dealings, and genuinely kept her secrets, secrets.”_

_“Leaving the most likely option being someone else involved in drugs.”_

_“The last arrest file was for a joyride taken in a car without the owners position and the possession of a firearm without documentation. The joyride was apparently due to a need to get to the shops before closing so that they may purchase diapers to a friend. They were in route to the friend when they were pulled over. Charles was allowed to deliver the diapers and told to report to the station house immediately after. He did. A few months after S.C’s final arrest, she was murdered. Charles stated that S.C was approached one day by two burly women. She told him to go home and not come out, and then she left willingly with the women.”_

_“As fascinating as a woman with multiple aliases having been murdered without a known true identity is, why on earth do you need the census? Or have you chained me to you until the case is solved for,” here Mycroft made air quotes and sneered, “funsies.”_

_Sherlock scoffed. “It’s like you’ve forgotten my mention of the Welsh address, and the fact that I’ve only mentioned two arrest warrants and aliases. The first arrest warrant included the name Leslie Hill, and a Welsh postcode. Which in and of itself isn’t all that interesting except that it is. The latter two arrests gave addresses in Middlesbrough, and the aliases were borrowed names. A standard practice for those times. However, if a Welsh woman were new in a shady town with a shady occupation the natural state of mind is to, of course, panic. A young person’s first thought is to give as close to the truth as possible without giving away your hand.”_

_“So then, her mother’s first and maiden names and hometown?”_

_“Yes exactly! Now the census should have confirmed her identity...”_

_Mycroft sighed and played along, if only to get to the end of this ordeal “However?”_

_“There is a Leslie Moore neè Hill with three older children and  a six month old daughter named Caitlynn Sarah Coral Moore, but no Catlyn Moore.” Sherlock smiled with glee._

_Mycroft however, chose to groan openly and loudly, exasperated. “Are you telling me, we’re going to Wales, for legwork, when you can just make a fucking phone call?”_

_“We can’t, considering Llanfynydd is a village of roughly 500 and some of those may be sheep.”_

_Mycroft closed his eyes and slowly accepted his fate. “Firstly, why must it be the Valleys? Secondly, I hate you. Third, I hate you and want you to suffer. Fourth, see you at Paddington  at 8 am tomorrow.” Here Mycroft opened his eyes and smirked insincerely in his brother’s face._

_“Paddington,” Sherlock exclaimed, “you have a driver!”_

_Mycroft stood and collected the tea tray. “Ah yes, because two posh dressed men arriving in a posh car in a village that is most likely ‘locals only’, who ask questions are bound to be welcomed with open arms.”_

_“Fine, but your driver could still take us to Newport at the very least.”_

_Mycroft turned his best dead eyed, overly dramatic smile upon his brother “Suffer.”_

_It was Sherlock’s turn to groan openly._

The sound of faint buzzing from the kitchen pulls Mycroft out of his reverie and back into the afternoon light of his office. He exited hastily and retrieved his dinner from the oven. Setting the aluminium boat on the cutting board he carefully removed the too and allowed the steam to fall out. The fish and vegetables looked delectable and smelled divine. He grabbed a plate and carefully transferred the dish from the aluminium to the plate, years of having done so meant the vegetable bed and salmon were undisturbed in the shift. He crumpled the foil and tossed it into the recycling bin. He let the fish rest while he went to his study to raid his personal bar for an appropriate wine. He brought the bottle into the kitchen, grabbed a handful of frozen grapes from the freezer, and poured himself a generous glass. Once Mycroft felt the fish had had enough time to rest, he picked up his plate, wine glass, and headed to his study. As a rule he did not eat in his office, a drink was acceptable, but food defeated the purpose of it being a room for thinking.

He ate in silence and merely enjoyed his food, he did not continue his reminiscing nor did he ponder the upcoming case. Once he was finished he returned to the kitchen, washed and dried his dishes, and went to retrieve his sheets from the dryer. He folded the sheets, and placed them in the linen closet in the laundry room, he had plenty in the upstairs one that he need not worry about toting these upstairs just yet. Once that chore was finally finished he headed back updating and  back to his office. He would not been unprepared for this case. He spent the next hour and a half going over the tidbits Sherlock had given him and memorising the maps of both the school grounds and surrounding village. At some point he became suddenly tired, and without really being aware of it, he dozed off at his desk.

_The boarding school music room was empty as the rest of the students were out enjoying the early September afternoon. Any day now the weather would turn to the usual chilly Autumn and any chance at pleasant sunshine was coveted and well enjoyed. Except for one fifteen year old Mycroft Holmes. Ever since the second fire that had claimed his sister’s life Uncle Rudi had decided it was high time he put his oldest nephew’s mind to good use. This of course meant whatever scrap of childhood Mycroft was still due, was burned away. He was removed from the local school near the new cottage and enrolled in a boarding school in London. Mummy hadn’t even argued that he was still a child,  that she’d already lost her daughter and had no intention of letting her sons out of her sight. Instead she had only made sure her younger brother had no grand plans for her youngest son, and looked the other way when all he wanted was Mycroft._

_Mummy was still so angry about his failure to keep a proper eye on Eurus the day Victor Trevor had disappeared. It hadn’t mattered that he was thirteen, or that he only wasn’t watching them because he was helping Sherlock get the sand, rocks, and water out of his wellies, after he had waded too far into the water. It hadn’t matter that upon finishing that chore he had looked up, noticed them missing and immediately searched for them, that after not finding them for ten minutes had picked up his brother and ran to the house to sound the alarm. He was red in the face, out of breath, and Sherlock was screaming his head off. They had found Eurus among the funny headstones twenty minutes later, but not Victor. Then the police came, and the Trevor family, and he was questioned, as were his siblings and parents. They never found him and all along Eurus would sing that senseless song. Sherlock told himself a lie, and shortly there after Eurus started the fire in her bedroom._

_When uncle Rudi and some men had taken her away Mycroft had spoken up and said they would help Eurus, heal her. Mummy let her daughter go, and a month later the second fire claimed her life. Mycroft was sure Mummy blamed him for that too. Then three months later, uncle Rudi came, this time for Mycroft. Eight and a half months later he had his normal schedule the boarding school provided, and then daily lessons, phone calls, or meetings with his uncle. Today was the first day in nearly a year that Mycroft was left to his own devices. Classes were over for the week, uncle Rudi was out of the country, and Mycroft was free to do as he pleased. So here he stood, in the empty music room, facing the grand piano in the corner._

_Eurus and Sherlock had fallen for the violin but for Mycroft it was all about the piano. The strings had too much variance, and each player could easily add little bits here and there without ever interfering with the piece. Mycroft loathed that, he was a numbers man, and the strings offered too many possibilities. The piano however, only held a certain number of possibilities. You could change the rhythm, number of notes, or ever players as much as you wanted. But, the sound produced by the hammer strike could only hold the note for so long. It was a logical and poetic instrument, the best of both worlds really._

_Thus Mycroft approached the bench, sat down, and began to play. He began with his scales, quick and nimble. Then his arpeggios, rhythmic. Then immediately into the training songs, Hot Cross Buns to Mary Had a Little Lamb. Until with unprecedented ease he was halfway through Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. His hands were flying, his spine erect but his shoulders were relaxed. He was faintly smiling. He felt unstoppable. Until he heard the drip. At first he thought it was a leaky radiator pipe, but it sounded like it was falling too far a ways to be that. He refused to open his eyes, to let this joy be ruined by a bit of white noise. He continued to play. The room became chilly. It had to be the radiator, this side of the school was always drafty, and Autumn was just around the corner, perhaps the boiler responsible for this side had been turned on early and the radiator was indeed leaking._

_It got dark. He’d simply been playing too long, he’d stop after a few more songs. He still refused to open his eyes, he wouldn’t ruin this one himself, he didn’t know when the next opportunity to play would arrive. And then he heard the laughter of a young child. His hands froze over the keys Clare de Lune incomplete. The sound of a small pebble falling onto the piano’s lid, forced him to open his eyes. He was no longer a fifteen year old boy enjoying a reprieve, but his adult self dressed in the pyjamas he wore before...before something. His feet were wet, he wasn’t even in the music room anymore, he now found himself at the bottom of a well, water up to his ankles, still seated at the piano. The laughter happened again, this time with a more malicious tone. He looked up._

_“Mycie we weren’t done playing” six year old Eurus called down. And then the water started pouring in._

Mycroft awoke with a start, his office was dark and he was covered in sweat. A new nightmare then, he must still be exhausted, or perhaps he was too quick in thawing the fish and it had somehow gone off. Yes, it must just be a bit of indigestion. He stood, and not wanting to walk all the way up to his room in soaked clothes, he stripped to his pants, and carried the rest up with him. Once in his room he tossed the pyjamas into the clothes bin, grabbed a small carry on bag, and packed it with a few days worth of clothes appropriate for tomorrow’s case with Sherlock. He then marched into his bathroom,  ran a hot bath, lit his lavender candles and settled in for a good soak. Once sufficiently pruned he grabbed the plug with his toes, retrieved his soft purple pyjamas from the closet, and then tucked in for the night. It didn’t matter that it was 7 p.m or that he’d slept more in the last 24 hours than he had in weeks, he was ready for the nightmares to be over and for tomorrow to bring a new beginning. He was done with misgivings of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know I said I'd try for every three weeks. I clearly failed, but I want you to know I haven't given up on this fic. Thanks for sticking with me and for being so patient.


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